Maid and Mistress
by WiltingDaisies94
Summary: An arranged marriage to King Arthur brings Princess Guinevere to Camelot, accompanied by her faithful maid, Morgana. Among the pre-wedding celebrations is a masked ball, which brings two unlikely couples together - for better or for worse. A tale of betrayal, confusion, sacrifice, anger, and truly astounding love. Contains ArMor, Gwen-Lance, and our wise-yet-clueless Merlin.
1. Chapter 1

WiltingDaisies94: This story is first and foremost for Arthur and Morgana lovers, and is dedicated to the beautiful, inescapable chemistry that electrifies the air between them on the show.

The writers have taken some liberties with the legend, so in the spirit of Merlin, I'm planning to do the same. In this tale Guinevere is a princess (which she was in the legend) but Morgana, rather than being a lady, is Guinevere's maid.

**Note**: This story is a tribute to the following couples: Gwen/Lancelot, Gwen/Arthur, and Arthur/Morgana. I've been reluctant to put it under Arthur/Morgana, because Gwen is not a secondary character, and I don't want her romance with Lancelot to become a side thing. They are just as important as Arthur and Morgana!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Merlin, the BBC network, or any of the original Arthurian legends that inspired the show.

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><p><span>Chapter 1<span>

"Morgana? Morgana, where are you? I need you!"

"Coming, Mistress!" The owner of the name came hurrying into the room. "I am sorry, Milady, one of the serving boys decided to give me a spot of trouble on the way up."

"No excuses, Morgana, I was supposed to be packed and ready to leave a half an hour ago."

"I am aware, Milady. I apologize." Morgana placed the armful of gowns she was carrying down on the bed.

Princess Guinevere smiled benevolently at her maid. "Now take a breath, Morgana; you know I only tease."

"Of course, Milady." Morgana dipped a curtsy to her mistress.

Guinevere fixed her elegant travelling cloak about her shoulders. "So," she asked, "which mischievous serving boy was it this time?"

Morgana rolled her eyes and began folding up the gowns. "George," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Ah." Guinevere nodded knowingly. "That would certainly explain the delay. Did he ask you to marry him again?"

Morgana tossed her head dismissively. "Does he ever fail to do so?"

The Princess smiled. "And what did you tell the poor boy?"

"The same thing I say every time," Morgana answered. "No."

Guinevere laughed as she watched her maid pack her clothing. "Why do you always refuse him, Morgana?"

The maid shrugged her shoulders. "I do not love him," she replied simply.

Her mistress gave a bitter chuckle. "And what has love to do with the matter?" she asked.

Morgana looked up from her work. She had served Princess Guinevere for years, and was no amateur at reading her facial expressions. Behind her apparent indifference, Morgana knew her mistress was less than pleased with her current situation. "Are you well, Milady?" she asked gently.

"Of course," Guinevere replied without a hint of hesitation. "What reason would I have to be otherwise?"

Morgana smiled. "There is no need to pretend in front of me, Milady. As ever, I am happy to listen."

Guinevere's smile faltered momentarily. "I… I am fine, Morgana."

Morgana returned to packing, knowing that Guinevere would rather speak of her own volition than have the truth pulled forcibly from her.

"This will not be my first time visiting Camelot," the Princess remarked, beginning to pace back and forth, as was her habit when anxious. "Although it will be yours, will it not, Morgana?"

"Yes, Milady."

Guinevere smiled faintly, looking away from her maid. "It is a city that makes an impression. I was only a little girl when we last travelled there – Father had business to attend to – but I have never forgotten."

Morgana made a light noise in the back of her throat, signaling that she was listening, and that Guinevere should go on.

"The castle itself is enormous," the Princess recalled, "and surrounded by beautiful, rolling grasslands. The gates to the city are higher than three men standing atop each other's shoulders. Great pennants fly from the heights of four impossibly tall towers, holding the Pendragon crest aloft for all to view."

Morgana smiled, tucking away a midnight blue gown. "It sounds lovely, Milady."

"And the food!" Guinevere continued, "It was simply heavenly. I can still remember the exquisite way they cooked their meat; it was wonderful, deliciously tender."

"Better than our cooks' recipes?" Morgana asked.

"Certainly," Guinevere replied, "though if you ever tell Cook I have said so, I will have you put in the stocks before you have the chance to so much as utter a protest."

"Of course not, Milady." Morgana shook her head. "You know I would never repeat your secrets." She started on a periwinkle gown and added quietly, "Large or small."

Guinevere smiled at her maid. "I do know. You are a good friend, Morgana." She put a hand on her shoulder. "I am very glad you will be accompanying me."

"It is my pleasure to do so." Morgana placed her hand over Guinevere's.

The Princess smiled sadly. "You will like Camelot, I imagine."

Morgana tilted her head to the side, her expression genuinely concerned. "But will it please _you_, Milady?"

Guinevere shrugged, attempting to seem lighthearted. "Well enough."

Morgana closed the case she'd been packing, having finished storing her mistress's clothes. "Milady, I am your friend, as you have said. There is no need to be brave simply for my sake."

The Princess nodded hesitantly. "You are right, Morgana." She ducked her head a bit sheepishly. "Perhaps I am… slightly… anxious."

"Why is that?" Morgana asked, carefully leading her mistress into confessing.

Guinevere sighed. "I have not seen the King since I was but seven years of age and he was only a prince. What if I do not like him? What if he likes not of me?"

"Impossible, Milady. What is there not to like?" Morgana grasped her mistress's hand. "There could never be a man who did not find you utterly charming. You are a lovely, intelligent, gracious lady."

"And _he_ is the King of Camelot!" Guinevere released Morgana's hand. "He was eleven years of age the last time we met, and more than slightly arrogant, if memory serves." She shook her head. "What if we do not get along?"

"Ridiculous." Morgana dismissed the notion immediately. "All boys are obnoxious cretins at age eleven; most of them grow past it."

Guinevere turned away. "How can you be certain?"

Morgana moved around in front of her mistress. "Milady, I have had occasion to speak to the King's servants, those who came with the ambassadors, and I must tell you, they speak very highly of their master."

"Oh?" Guinevere looked up. "What do they say?"

Morgana led her mistress over to the bed and sat down beside her. "They say he is a great warrior, strong and courageous, his prowess in battle unmatched." She smiled. "They say the King is extremely attentive to his people's needs, and always judicious in his decision making."

"But as a man?" Guinevere folded her arms. "What of that?"

Morgana took her mistress's hand, gently encasing it between her own. "He is reportedly very handsome, Milady."

"So too was the Duke of Cornwall's son," the Princess snapped, "but I have certainly no interest in marrying him."

"Be calm, Milady." Morgana patted her hand. "Servants are often the most truthful of taletellers. A discontented maid has no qualms with whispering behind her master's back. So," she concluded, "it is a tribute to the King that even miles away from home, his servants still sing his praises."

Despite Morgana's logic, Guinevere remained uneasy. "Does he drink?" she asked.

"To no great extent," Morgana answered.

"Does he beat his servants?"

Morgana shook her head. "No, Milady. But seldom, and never without cause."

Guinevere closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It seems impossible that he should be so good," she whispered.

Morgana laughed softly. "Milady, are you seeking to find fault with your betrothed? By all accounts the King is a good man; what more must you know?"

Guinevere looked at Morgana, appraising her earnest expression. "Sweet Morgana," she said, patting her maid on the cheek. "You are so goodhearted."

Morgana shrugged, looking fondly at her mistress. "You have my loyalty, Milady. You are equally welcome to my thoughts."

"Milady?" A young pageboy poked his head into the room. "His Highness requires your presence. He is impatient to begin travelling, and insists he will brook no more delay."

Guinevere sighed shortly and stood. "Inform His Majesty that I will be with him presently."

"Yes, Milady." The page bowed low and was gone.

Morgana stood. "Shall I bring your things, Milady?"

"Yes." Guinevere had resumed her resilient tone. "And be quick about it." She folded her arms and breathed deeply.

"Of course, Milady." By the time Morgana had finished curtsying and looked up, the Princess had left.


	2. Chapter 2

WiltingDaisies94: Wow, seems like a lot of people were interested in the first chapter, so with a very quick update, here is number two!

This time we're with Arthur (who is king, age 25) and Merlin, his faithful, reasonable, charming, wonderful manservant. And as you'll see, His Highness is just as uncomfortable with this marriage as Guinevere... though he expresses it a tad bit differently...

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

"Sire?" Merlin entered the room, bearing a pitcher of sweet wine. "The head of the guards says tha – Sire?"

The King was seated in a heavily carved wooden chair, his chin in his hand. He was staring into the distance, which seemed to consist of a bare wall, with a displaced look on his face.

"Your Majesty?" Merlin clutched the jug and moved over to his master. "Are you well?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up. "What was that?"

Merlin smiled, refilling the empty wine goblet. "I asked after your wellbeing, Sire. You seem to be a bit… out of sorts, perhaps?"

The King shook his head quickly. "I am fine, Merlin, I was merely thinking."

Merlin raised his eyebrows. "Oh? What about, Majesty?

Arthur shifted in his seat. "Women."

"Women?" Merlin handed his master the now full goblet. "What about them?"

Arthur took a sip of wine. "I have reached the conclusion," he pronounced, "that they must be like precious gems."

"Gems?" Merlin repeated slowly, internally beginning to question the King's sanity.

"Consider. If every woman is like a jewel, beautiful and precious in their own way, why should one quarrel over receiving a sapphire rather than a ruby?"

"Sire?"

"Women," Arthur continued, "may be diamonds, or pearls, or whatever it pleases God for them to be, but what is pertinent is that they are each singularly lovely. Should not any man fortunate enough to own a jewel be satisfied with what he has?"

Merlin hopped up onto a table across from Arthur. "Pardon my disagreement, Sire, but it seems to me that all this talk of jewels is your rationalizing your arranged marriage." He paused. "Again."

The King looked at him strangely. "Oh?"

Merlin nodded. "Provided one follows your theory of all women being as jewels," he said, "you have completely eliminated the difficulty of preference."

Arthur drank more deeply from his goblet. "Go on."

"If a man is presented with a sapphire, perhaps he would be well satisfied with it," Merlin explained, "but without a choice or alternative, by merely accepting the sapphire, he shall never see the perfect ruby that would have come immediately after, which perhaps he would have desired infinitely more."

When Arthur declined to respond, Merlin went on. "Obviously I am no seer. Perhaps you and the Princess Guinevere will be perfectly well matched, and I hope with every prayer in my soul that you are. But I know you, Sire. This arrangement does not please you."

The King shook his head. "It is best for the kingdom. Carmelide is a wealthy city, and the Princess brings an excellent dowry with her."

Merlin crossed his legs. "This is true, but you have not met the Princess Guinevere in near on fourteen years." He smiled reprovingly at his master. "You are a proud king, Majesty, and stubbornly dutiful when it comes to your people. I know you would sacrifice everything for them, including your personal happiness."

"In an instant," Arthur affirmed.

"Yes, but simply because you_ would, _does not mean you _should_," Merlin argued.

The King smiled slowly. "Merlin, your worry is touching, but stick to being a servant."

"Your Majesty –"

"You must understand, Merlin, politics have nothing to do with love or even "preference", as you call it." Arthur drained his goblet and sighed. "My people need this alliance, Merlin. My personal affections are totally secondary."

Merlin was quiet, folding his arms across his chest.

Clearly the King was in a bizarre mood, as without transition he asked, "Have you ever been in love, Merlin?"

His manservant's expression gave away the answer. "Yes, Sire."

Arthur placed his empty goblet on the floor beside him. "Tell me about her."

Merlin looked questioningly at his master, but did not refuse. "Back in my hometown, Ealdor, there was a girl. Freya." His eyes sparkled gently at the thought. "We had been friends since childhood. Her father was a fisherman, an honest soul, and her mother made the most wonderful fish stew you can imagine."

Arthur smiled to himself at Merlin's poorly concealed adoration. "What was she like?" he asked, leaning back in his seat.

Merlin grinned. "Warm and sweet, like the smell of fresh bread after you come in from a winter storm." He shrugged, embarrassed. "She laughed the first time I told her that."

"Hardly surprising," Arthur said contemptuously. "The way to win a lady's heart is certainly not by comparing her to baked goods."

Merlin seemed surprisingly unabashed. "I was only seven years of age at the time," he protested good-naturedly.

"Seven?" Arthur seemed surprised. "Rather precocious of you, Merlin."

The manservant laughed. "I have little defense to offer for myself, Sire." He shrugged. "I knew I loved Freya even then, though it took her a good while longer to come around. Do you know what she said to me when I first declared my love?"

"Tell me."

Merlin sighed. "I was ten years of age by the time I had found the courage to admit my feelings. I marched right up to her and took her hand." Merlin set his face, giving a spectacular imitation of himself as a child. "'Freya,' I said, speaking so quickly it still amazes me that she correctly heard the words, 'I love you.'"

The King's eyes glinted with amusement, his face bearing a genuine smile. "And?"

"And she looked me right in the eye," Merlin continued, changing his voice to mimic that of a prissy young girl, "and said, 'Is that all?'"

Arthur burst out laughing. "Truly?"

Merlin grinned foolishly. "Truly, Sire. She placed a hand on her hip and gave me a look of such perfect scorn; I thought my innards would freeze." He raked a hand through his untidy hair. "Without a word, I bolted and ran straight home."

Arthur clapped his hands together. "Well done, Merlin."

The manservant rolled his eyes. "Well, if nothing else, it worked out eventually."

"Oh?" Arthur wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. "How so?"

Merlin's expression shifted. "Freya finally discovered that she returned my feelings. This was, of course," he added, "five years later."

The King crossed his arms. "How did that come about?"

Merlin frowned in remembrance. "It was winter," he recalled. "The river had frozen over, and I had gone with Freya and her father to play on the ice. I liked the feel of gliding across the frozen water; it seemed like I had wings."

Arthur cocked his head slightly. "So, what happened?"

"Freya hit a bad patch," Merlin said. "The ice cracked under her feet, and the water pulled her under. To this day I do not think I have ever hurried so greatly. Somehow I reached her before she was swallowed by the river and managed to pull her out."

Arthur nodded in approval. "Sounds like you were a proper hero, Merlin."

Merlin shook his head. "It was terrifying, Sire, seeing her disappear like that." He shivered at the memory. "She was so cold when I fished her out and shaking like a frightened child."

"She survived, did she not?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, she did," Merlin hastily reassured him. "She was unconscious for the next day though, feverish and ill. I stayed at her bedside the entire time." He smiled faintly. "To this day, few things are as precious to me as when she first reopened her eyes."

The King considered his manservant with a newfound respect. "You amaze me sometimes, Merlin."

Merlin shrugged. "We do what we can to protect those we love."

"Well said," Arthur agreed, liking the phrase. "But you compel me to ask, Merlin. If this girl was so dear to you, why did you leave her to come to Camelot?"

Merlin's smile was soft and sorrowful. "She was no longer in Ealdor when I left, Sire."

Arthur looked confused. "Why not?"

"A year later she was captured." Merlin bit his lip. "Slave traders from the northern border caught her while she was out in the woods with some village girls. Only one managed to return and spread the news." He breathed heavily. "After that, there was little for me to stay for."

Arthur shook his head. "I am sorry, Merlin."

Merlin shrugged, willing the topic to change. "It was long ago, Majesty. Much of the sting has worn off. Now, however," he said, hopping down from the table he'd been sitting on, "I must finish preparations for the Princess Guinevere's arrival. The head of the guards insisted I tell you that the tourney field is ready for use before I returned to my duties."

"Certainly, Merlin, you may go." Arthur cleared his throat and stood.

Merlin bowed. "Sire." He headed for the door.

"Merlin?" Arthur called after him.

His manservant paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Thank you." The King said it quietly, but Merlin heard him.

"My pleasure, Sire." He smiled. "And I do hope, whatever the odds may be, that you find your jewel. You deserve it."

Arthur nodded and watched his manservant's retreating back. 'I would rather a sweetbread,' he found himself thinking, but quickly shrugged the thought away.


	3. Chapter 3

WiltingDaisies94: Well folks, in classic me style, it looks like this tale is going to be an extensive one, so buckle up and prepare for a nice, long story.

This chapter we return to Guinevere, who upon arrival in Camelot has much to tell her favorite maid...

Enjoy!

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><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

"Good evening, Milady." Morgana entered the bedchamber and dropped a curtsy to her mistress. "How are you?" She shivered suddenly. "Oh my, it is terribly cold in here – shall I close the curtains?"

The princess did not reply. She sat in bed, her legs curled up, leaning her head against the elegant wooden backboard. She stared absentmindedly at the floor.

"Milady?" Morgana abandoned her drape-closing endeavor and approached the bed. "Is something the matter?"

Guinevere sighed. "Oh Morgana – this is such a mistake."

Morgana's forehead crinkled. "What happened, Milady?"

The princess shook her head. "He is perfect."

Morgana's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?" She hurried over to the bed and sat down. "Who is?"

Guinevere looked at her maid, her gaze frustrated and troubled. "His Majesty, the King. Arthur Pendragon. Beloved Ruler of Camelot."

Morgana frowned. "I am afraid I do not follow. Why does His Majesty so offend you?"

Guinevere shifted in place, folding her arms. "He is precisely as reported," she said shortly.

"I…" Morgana shook her head in confusion. "Milady, I pray you, what displeases you about the King?"

"Nothing." Guinevere's voice was guarded. "Absolutely nothing."

Morgana flicked a stray strand of hair out of her face. "Was it the introduction? The feast?"

The princess grimaced. "Everything, Morgana. It was awful."

Morgana took her mistress's hand, trying to understand. "Tell me what happened, Milady. You know I was not present for the formal arrival."

"You never can be there when I need you most." Guinevere squeezed Morgana's hand and tried to smile at her friend. "We entered the gates about noon, with the usual fanfare. The courtyard was full, guards and nobles everywhere." She sighed. "And there he was."

"The King?" Morgana clarified.

Her mistress nodded. "Yes. Standing in the center of the stone staircase, wearing a sparkling crown on his perfect, golden head."

"Milady?" Morgana didn't understand.

"He descended from the stairs, his silken cloak fluttering behind him," Guinevere added, "and helped me down from my horse." She groaned. "The proper image of a gentleman doing his duty."

"Oh?"

Guinevere nodded. "It becomes worse. He bowed and offered me his arm. He is precisely as handsome as you said – blue eyes and a kind smile."

"And?" Morgana couldn't pretend; she was completely lost.

"And the feast, ugh! They seated us together, of course." Guinevere pinched the bridge of her nose. "He was utterly polite. He speaks strongly and clearly, with all the assertion of a king. He even listened attentively to the general conversation of the table."

"Pardon me, Milady," Morgana interrupted, "but His Majesty sounds quite... well intentioned. I apologize for my thick-headedness, but what is wrong with him?"

The princess chuckled darkly. "You are hardly slow, Morgana, it is I who am presenting as nonsensical." She sobered slightly. "The King is not truly at fault – he is fine, as I have said. But… I…" she looked away.

"Yes, Milady?" Morgana followed her mistress's unhappy gaze.

"I felt nothing." Guinevere couldn't meet her maid's eye. "No spark, nothing compelling. Why should I feel like this? He was proper, everything a king should be…" She shook her head in disgust. "But a political showman nonetheless."

Morgana reached out a hand and lifted her mistress's chin.

Guinevere's eyes were cloaked in disappointment. "I could tell, Morgana. Something in me knew at once… I cannot love him."

The maid shook her head. "Milady, that is foolishness. How could you possibly assume such a thing? Come, you have had a long day's journey –"

"No!" Guinevere protested. "It is more than that. I saw it, Morgana, that concealed indifference flickering across his face." She turned her head sharply away. "He is a man who marries for convenience."

"Milady, you must be reasonable," Morgana persuaded. "You have only just seen His Highness again; you should not judge him so immediately."

"It was not a judgment," Guinevere insisted. "I could sense it, Morgana. He has a face for diplomacy, a head for strategy, and an arm for battle, but I…"

"What, Milady?"

"I want a mouth for poetry and a heart for loving," the princess said quietly. "Not the solemn acceptance of a king who considers me a necessary burden to his kingdom."

"Milady, you have only just begun to know His Majesty. You do yourself a disservice to disregard him so quickly." Morgana shook her head, deciding her mistress had clearly had too much excitement for one day. "If he is as courteous as you describe, then I am certain you will come to love him and earn his love as well." She swallowed, a little hesitant to say the next words. "You are too intelligent to have expected love at first encounter."

Guinevere sighed. "Perhaps I had hoped for it," she admitted.

"Hush, Milady." Morgana soothed her mistress. "You will only succeed in upsetting yourself. I am sure His Majesty will become as amorous as you could wish. Only give him time; not every royal gives their affections as sweetly and quickly as you."

Guinevere closed her eyes, not trusting herself to speak, but she did not struggle as Morgana tucked her beneath the covers.

"Tomorrow will be a new day, brighter, better. You will have your rest, and the masque will surely lift your spirits."

Guinevere rested her head on a soft, goose feather pillow. "The masque?"

"Of course, Milady, the –"

"The masque!" Guinevere bolted up. "No! I had completely forgotten."

Morgana placed her hands on Guinevere's shoulders and eased her back down. "Shh. Milady, you did know the King had a masque planned in honor of your wedding."

"Yes, I did." The princess flumped back down. "You are right, Morgana."

"It will be lovely, I am sure." Morgana fixed the covers. "You have a beautiful gown, made in Carmelide by your favorite seamstress, and a perfect mask to adorn your sweet face."

Guinevere bit her lip. "I cannot go through with this, Morgana. I simply cannot. Not alone. If I face His Majesty –"

"Milady," Morgana said, "you must breathe. All this fuss is no good for you."

"Come with me!" Guinevere shot up for the second time. "Please Morgana, I would feel much better if you were there."

The maid's eyes went wide. "I cannot, Milady, the masque is not for servants; only nobles may attend. I could get into such trouble…"

"But it is a masque!" Guinevere's eyes nearly sparkled at the idea. "You would be disguised… you could borrow a gown… no one would be the wiser."

Morgana shook her head vehemently. "I cannot, Milady."

"Please?" The princess had grasped her hands and was looking intently at her maid. "I…I would feel… much better if you would accompany me. You have come this far," she said with a shrug, "and it is only one night. Please, Morgana?"

Morgana sighed deeply. "Must I?"

"Yes," Guinevere affirmed. "You must. It will be our secret, I promise. No one ever need know."

Morgana took a breath and smiled halfheartedly. "Very well, Milady. As you insist."

"Thank you, Morgana." Guinevere finally allowed herself to be tucked into bed.

"Always, Milady." Morgana stood and looked down at her mistress. "Sleep well." She curtsied and left the bedchamber, where her mistress tossed and turned for the better part of the night.

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><p>WD94: Masque = fancy ball where everyone wears a mask<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

WiltingDaisies94: So much love for Merlin and Arthur, I can hardly express it; they have the most beautiful bromance... *sigh*. So enjoy another chapter with the two of them, and as always leave me your thoughts!

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><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

Arthur stared up at the ceiling. The sunlight fluttered happily through the open windows, and lay in perfectly symmetrical patterns across the floor.

"Morning, Sire." Merlin entered the room and bowed politely.

Arthur raised his head off the pillow and glanced at his intruding manservant. "Mm," he muttered in a noncommittal fashion.

"Something the matter, Sire?"

The King shook his head and forced himself to sit up. "No."

Merlin began assembling His Majesty's clothes for the day. "That is very convincing sounding, Majesty. If you informed me that pigs could take flight in that particular tone, I would be certain they could, really, honestly."

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur demanded irritably. "And close those curtains, would you?"

Merlin raised his eyebrows, but didn't argue. "Certainly, Your Majesty." He moved to complete the task.

Arthur took a deep breath, trying to convince himself to leave the comfort of his bed. "Dear Lord…" He put a hand over his eyes.

"Something bothering you, Sire?" Merlin asked.

He shook his head. "Ugh. Merlin, are you certain this masque is a good idea?"

The servant gave his master a strange look. "Er… I suppose? It is not as if I suggested the event."

"I am aware of that," Arthur snapped. "I meant, a masque is very… it is… well, it is a tradition in Carmelide, not Camelot."

"Well, seeing as your future bride hails from Carmelide –"

"Yes, I _know_, Merlin." Arthur shot his manservant an irritated look. "What I am trying to express…" he groaned. "Perhaps I am still mildly uncomfortable with the idea."

Merlin frowned. "Why? I should think a bunch of beautiful, anonymous women packed into the palace, dancing and frolicking in the dark, would be precisely your sort of celebration."

The King scowled.

His servant chuckled. "Sire, I am afraid I do not understand the reluctance. It is only a masque; no one will know who you are." He grinned. "That is sort of the point."

Arthur shook his head. "What 'point', Merlin?' he groused. "Why can we not simply have our tourney and be done?"

"We will have the tourney, Majesty, after the wedding." Merlin laid out Arthur's clothing on a dresser. "The masque is a gesture – you should attempt to enjoy it."

Arthur reached down to remove the covers, but did not reply, gazing moodily away from his friend.

In that instant, something occurred to Merlin. "But you already know that, Sire, considering your grasp of diplomacy." He turned to face the King, realization dawning on him. "It is not the masque that irritates you – it is the princess!"

"Stop talking, Merlin," Arthur commanded.

"No," he refused, coming towards the bed. "Not until you tell me what displeases you about her."

"Nothing!" Arthur stood and pushed his way roughly past Merlin, knocking him in the shoulder.

"Ow," Merlin hissed to himself, grasping his now throbbing shoulder. "Sire, do not lie to me, please, it will not serve you."

"No, but _you_ will serve me, Merlin," Arthur growled, pulling his tunic over his head. "And when I ask for silence…"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Your Majesty," he said firmly, "I am not asking you as your servant. I am asking you as your friend."

The King slowed his rapid movements, pulling on his trousers slightly less viciously.

"Sire?" Merlin began straightening Arthur's bed sheets, attentive without appearing so.

Arthur placed himself down in a chair and put on his boots. "There was nothing wrong with the Princess Guinevere."

"_I _thought not." Merlin fixed the blankets, tucking them over. "But I noted your expressions during dinner. I was serving, if you recall?"

"There was no expression," Arthur snapped far too quickly.

"Sire, I have worked for you for several years." Merlin fixed a pillow. "I know you believe I am not the brightest manservant you could find, but do not do my mental abilities such discredit as not being able to recognize your feigning."

"Feigning?" Arthur flushed angrily. "What are you talking about?"

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "It is a particular smile, Majesty. A bit too much lift in your upper lip. It is subtle; certainly took me long enough to discover it."

Arthur turned his head and gaped unflatteringly at his servant. "I – I – excuse me?"

"You know," Merlin prompted, pivoting to face the King. "It is a bit like this." He demonstrated, giving an impression of Arthur's 'feigning'.

The King narrowed his eyes. "I do not make that face, Merlin."

"You do, Sire. Mostly when you are fighting very hard to remain polite. Occasionally when you are in an uncomfortable situation." Merlin nodded his head knowingly. "And you were wearing that face for the better part of the evening, which tells me something was making you feel out of sorts." He shrugged. "The only thing I know of that has changed since yesterday is the Princess's arrival."

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes. "Curse you, Merlin."

"So what is it?" Merlin crossed his arms, perfectly curious, like a child waiting on a night tale. "Why does she displease you?"

The King put a hand over his face. "She does not, Merlin." He stood up. "Princess Guinevere is fine. She is beautiful, well-spoken; there is nothing displeasing in her speech or appearance. And considering as well the enormous dowry she brings to the kingdom, the princess could not please me more."

"You are lying, again." Merlin actually looked excited, and held up a finger, pointing at his master. "There goes the face."

Arthur glowered at Merlin over his shoulder. "Fine. Have it your way." He stood up and faced his servant. "Princess Guinevere is not everything I had hoped for. Is that what you want me to say?"

Merlin shook his head. "Majesty, it is not my wish to see you angry or unhappy. I am trying to understand – to help."

Arthur sighed. "It is not a matter for your interference, Merlin."

"But it is a matter, then?"

"Gah!" The King shook his head and held up his hands. "Very well, Merlin, I concede."

"Excellent." Merlin plopped himself down on Arthur's bed and crossed his legs. "At your leisure, Sire."

The King paced. "Sometimes I really cannot abide by you, Merlin." He crossed his arms, walking back and forth before the bed. "The Princess… Guinevere… she is lovely, as I said."

"But?"

"But," Arthur continued, "wrong."

"Wrong?" Merlin shook his head. "How do you mean?"

The King was quiet for a minute. "It is difficult to express. She…" he gestured, trying to explain. "She smiled."

The questioning of Arthur's sanity returned full force. "She smiled?" Merlin asked slowly, straining to find another meaning for the word 'smile'.

"Yes. At all the right moments."

"And that is… bad?"

"I do not know," Arthur replied, irritated at his inability to clarify. "But it was wrong. It is my impression that she is a good woman, if not a bit frigid, and I know she will bring much good to Camelot. But…" he took a breath, "There was nothing in her that I found… inspiring."

Merlin frowned. "Inspiring?"

The King's face had adopted a pensive expression. "I had thought… even hoped, I suppose… that there would be a moment. Something in her face that would speak to me, and say…" he shook his head. "Well, I am not sure what it would have said, but I would know that she was for me. It would be as clear and sharp as glass."

"You wanted love," Merlin realized. "Of course you did. All your political workings aside, you hoped nonetheless… But Sire –"

"It was not there." Arthur's voice was suddenly hard. "I looked at her smile and I knew."

Merlin looked at him strangely. "Your Majesty, what are you talking about?"

"No spark, Merlin. Nothing." He grimaced.

"Sire, how could you possibly be so certain? After all, you have only just seen the princess –"

"Do you remember how it felt," the King asked, "when you first realized you were in love with that girl? Freya?"

"Yes." Merlin nodded. "It was warm, like being flooded with sunlight."

The King shook his head. "Not in the slightest." He cleared his throat. "The princess is charming, politely cool; I believe I could come to like her. But I will not love her, Merlin."

"Are you certain, Majesty?" Merlin sounded surprised and slightly disbelieving. "After all, you have you only just met the Princess Guinevere after some thirteen odd years. Do not you think you are being hasty in judging her?"

"It was not a judgment," Arthur insisted, "I could sense it, Merlin."

"Sense it?" Shocked had progressed to full on incredulous, and Merlin had to hold back from staring outright at the King.

"I will try, though."

Merlin had lost the battle with his jaw. He merely gaped.

"I have no doubt I will learn to be… fond of the Princess." Arthur sounded almost forlorn for a moment. "So I will miss the chance to have love." He shrugged. "Companionship will suit me well, and the good this marriage will do for Camelot is more than satisfactory."

"But Sire –"

"It is as you said, Merlin." Arthur spoke softly. "We do what we can to protect those we love. And I love the people of Camelot."

"But –"

"So," Arthur said, planting his feet firmly, "onwards we go. I must speak to the guards about patrols for the evening."

With that, the King left the room, where his poor servant sat, still flabbergasted by his master's words.


	5. Chapter 5

WiltingDaisies94: May I just say, I love the Arthur/Morgana fandom; everyone is so adamantly right about how perfect they are together. The combination of reading your reviews and watching tons of beautiful ArMor videos is the most helpful inspirational there is.

So there's been lots of interest expressed in the masque, and I'm glad you're all excited for it; the whole plot-plot arguably starts with it. Arthur/Morgana and Gwen/Lancelot shippers, I tip my hat and raise my glass to you. Let the fun begin!

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><p><span>Chapter 5<span>

"No, she would not have said that! How much had she had to drink?"

"Hahaha! Here, fetch another round for us, boy!"

"And I said to him, 'I will most certainly not come and - '"

" - oh no! How could he do that? What a little - "

With great difficulty Morgana held herself back from clapping her hands over her ears. The noise of chatter alone was deafening; she felt smothered by the sheer number of people in the room. Yes, the hall was beautifully decorated, festive and cheerful, and plenty of food and drink had been laid out for the nobility, but everything seemed hostile to Morgana, who was trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

The poor maid was having a rather unfortunate time locating her mistress amongst the sea of nobles crowded into the main hall. Everywhere she turned there were masks and gowns, lords and ladies dancing, feasting, flirting. She had arrived with Guinevere not long ago, but somehow her mistress had managed to disappear almost immediately. The Princess had been no more than arm's length ahead of her, and yet a single passing crowd had carried her off in an instant.

Sighing, and fixing her mask for what was easily the seventh time, Morgana steeled herself against the raging throng of people. She squeezed through a narrow opening between two giggling women, and found her way over to a window. It was closed, but for Morgana it was pleasure enough to see the night sky, rather than the endless parade of giddy nobles.

She rested her elbows on the window ledge and took a deep, calming breath. So she had no idea where Guinevere had gone off to; that was fine, Morgana reassured herself. She was perfectly capable of navigating the evening by herself. Certainly no one would recognize her (she was unconsciously touching her mask again). And in the gown she was wearing no one could possibly guess she was anything less than a lady.

It really was a lovely dress; as a maid Morgana had never worn such finery before. The base color of the gown was a cardinal red, deepening as it moved downwards along the gown, until it was nearly burgundy. The skirt flowed in gentle waves to the ground and a scarlet sash formed a triangle in the front of the gown, just below the waist, and hung almost to the floor. Little bits of gold thread were sewn into the sash, and glinted whenever they caught the light.

The upper part of the gown was simple by comparison, monochromatic and cut squarely across Morgana's breasts. But what truly intrigued Morgana about the dress were the sleeves. They were sheer fabric of a pale redwood color, embroidered with a scarlet design like flames traveling along them. They hung long past the wrists, and fluttered to her knee. The same gold thread was present at the tip of each vine-like point in the pattern.

"You must wear it," Guinevere had insisted, shifting carelessly through the gowns Morgana had so neatly packed. "It will look lovely with your complexion, Morgana. Aha!" She liberated the garment from the bottom of the pile. "There. It shall be simply heavenly on you; every step you take shall make you look a living flame." The Princess had practically flushed with pleasure at the idea.

It was excellent luck that maid and mistress were similarly sized. Morgana smiled to herself, silently admitting that Her Ladyship certainly did have taste in clothing; she had been entirely right about the gown. Morgana rested one hand on her chin, and fingered the silk of the sash with her other hand, letting it slide through her fingers. She closed her eyes.

"Milady," a voice said, "you must come away from the window."

Startled, Morgana turned around, one hand jumping reflexively to her mask. A tall man stood in the shadows a few steps away, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He was wearing a golden mask, which, like Morgana's, ended just above the mouth, revealing the amused upwards quirk of his lips. His fitted tunic was of ivory silk, lightly embroidered with a delicate maize thread. A golden belt was wrapped flatteringly around him, showing off the swell of his muscled chest. His trousers were a pure white fabric, and tucked into soft boots that reached his knee.

"I beg your pardon, Milord." Morgana dropped a polite curtsy, her heart in her throat, but her voice strong and pointed. "I was unaware that the windows were forbidden territory."

"Oh they must be, Milady." The man smiled playfully. "For with a single glance at you, the poor moon would flee the sky, certain the sun had risen early." He inclined his head. "You must be merciful towards her. The moon is a palely creature, conscious of her diminutive graces; she cannot contend with so great a radiance as Milady possesses."

Morgana laughed, her heart settling back down. "I fear you do me too great a service in believing so, Milord," she replied humbly, before remembering that she was to play the lady tonight, and had to adopt the pride and entitlement of a noblewoman.

The man shook his head airily and straightened up. "Oh I think not. But," he said, and his eyes glinted behind his mask, "we could find out."

"Oh?" Morgana clasped her hands behind her back and tilted her chin up. "What do you suggest?"

The man gave her a moment's critical review and then replied with a hint of challenge in his voice, "Venture outside with me."

Morgana raised an eyebrow behind her mask, studying the man's expression. There was mischief in his eyes, but it was somehow appealing, and she judged it to be of the harmless sort. "Very well," she said, suddenly feeling almost impish herself. She reached out and pushed on the glass, throwing the window wide open. "After you, Milord," she said with a gesture of her hand.

The nobleman was taken aback for a moment, but then chuckled as he looked out the window. The hall was on the first story of the palace, and the window was only a few meters off the ground. "Such a fatal drop, Milady," he teased. "You must understand the risk I face in such an undertaking."

Morgana shrugged, affecting perfect indifference. "It was your proposal, if I recall, Milord. All the more your folly for not suggesting a method of occurrence." She smiled. "Of course, if the challenge is too difficult, I promise to accept your cowardice with good dignity and allow you a silent departure."

The man opened his mouth in indignation. "Cowardice?" he scoffed. "Very well, Milady. But I will not forget this slight." Holding out a hand, he shooed her backward imperiously. Once Morgana had moved, he placed both hands on the window and pulled his body up onto the ledge. Pausing, he put his hands behind him and leaped onto the ground on the other side of the window; grinning, he faced Morgana. "It is your turn, Milady."

Although she was not a noble or knight, Morgana had spent years carrying baskets of clothing up and down the palace stairs in Carmelide. Not to be outdone, she placed her hands on the ledge and pulled herself up, landing her knees on the sill. Her skirt was too long to go over properly, so she placed her hands on the sides of the window and stood up within the frame.

Surprised and impressed by her agility, and moved by the call of chivalry, the nobleman stepped forward and put his hands on Morgana's waist, steadying her as she jumped off the ledge. Morgana placed her hands on his broad shoulders and leaped.

Her feet met the ground, and the man's hands tightened for an instant to make sure she stayed upright. From this proximity, Morgana could tell that he probably had a fifth of a meter on her, if not slightly more. She started to remove her arms from his shoulders, but realized they had no place to go – the man still held her waist.

"Hm." Morgana cleared her throat. "Thank you, Milord," she prompted.

It took the man another moment to catch up with Morgana's thoughts and realize their position. "Oh. Of course, no, you are welcome." He quickly released her waist.

Morgana blushed a bit, but it was covered by the shadows. "Shall we go?" she asked.

The man held out his arm to escort her. "As you wish, Milady."


	6. Chapter 6

WiltingDaisies94: So last chapter you got to follow Morgana, and though I promise we'll get back to her in a bit, we must remember that she is not the only one at this masque. There are still a few players that need to enter onto the field... and then things will get complicated...

As always thank you all for your wonderful encouragement thus far, and please drop me a line when you've finished reading to let me know your thoughts!

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><p><span>Chapter 6<span>

The Princess felt surprisingly merry that evening. She'd expected to endure the isolation of her position, and yet surrounded by dancing masks and happy people, Guinevere was somehow reminded of the comforts of her far away home. It wasn't that she recognized anyone in particular (for she surely did not); Guinevere supposed it was the atmosphere of the masque, the familiar mystery of it all.

For the first time since her arrival in Camelot, there was no prickling feeling thrilling up her spine that clearly warned her to turn back. The masque was an equalizer – everyone present was a "stranger" to everyone else – and no one needed to know who Guinevere was or where she came from unless she chose to tell (which she, of course, had no intention of doing). It was the princess's last evening of freedom, and Guinevere had no plans to squander it away.

"Here, piper, play louder!"

Guinevere's attention was captured by the call of a man across the room; there was a small circle of people crowding around something Guinevere couldn't see. The princess picked her way carefully through the full room, squeezing past dozens of unknown, faceless people. It was slow going as she looked for open spaces, which were few and far in between.

As she reached the circle, Guinevere heard the strains of music. Standing on her tiptoes to peek over the shoulder of a very tall gentleman, she saw what everyone had crowded about for. A masked man in the center of the open space was playing a lute; his fingers strummed the strings with the gentle manner of a lover, coaxing them into a gentle melody.

His eyes were closed as he played, and Guinevere stared with a kind of hesitant fascination. The man was wearing a long silvery cloak over his grey tunic and it fluttered charmingly as he swayed. His fingers plucked at the lute, softly stirring the strings to life.

"Louder, troubadour!" someone in the crowd called out. "Sing us a ditty!"

The man smiled, not acknowledging the noise, but tilting his head to the side. He opened his mouth and began to croon.

_"I send a prayer upon the wind,_

_Oh hear this plea, my lady fair,_

_For I am tempered by your scorn,_

_ My heart thus beats in great despair."_

The Carmelidean princess moved around the people blocking her way; her feet were beginning to complain from her pose on her tiptoes. She carefully shifted among the taller figures in front of her, providing herself a better view of the singer.

_ "Perceive my melancholy voice,_

_ Take pity on this withering soul,_

_ Without your love I am as dust,_

_ Unable to be again whole."_

Guinevere listened, her attention rapt. There was a yearning in the man's voice that captured her ears, froze her entire being, forced her gaze to follow his movements. 'To whom is he singing this sorrowful tune?' she wondered, her only truly coherent thought.

_"Much like a vixen or prancing doe,_

_ You flee this hunter's longing sight,_

_ Your flashing eyes surrender not,_

_ Yet tis for thee I fight."_

The melody quieted slowly; Guinevere felt the trance slowly melt and begin to wear off.

The man with the lute finished his song. He took a breath and opened his eyes – his gaze locked with Guinevere's.

Every bone in her body seemed to turn to water. His look was so intense and sincere that her heart skipped a beat. Although she knew the song was not for her, his eyes burnt holes through her skin as if it were made of parchment.

"Well met!" A man in a green cloak, his mask a stunning shade of olive, clapped the player on his shoulder. "If that does not inspire your poor maiden to pity I would wager that nothing ever shall."

The silver-clad singer smiled and muttered something to his companion, but his eyes hardly left Guinevere's face. It was the oddest moment of her life; despite the mask steadfastly covering her face, Guinevere was convinced he knew exactly who she was.

"Excuse me, would you?" The man bowed gracefully out of the conversation, and began approaching Guinevere.

She found her legs unwilling move. Every step he took towards the princess made her wish to back away, but as if it knew the impulse irrational, her body refused to go.

"Milady." The man paused, bowed, and gave a delicate kiss to Guinevere's hand.

Only a small part of Guinevere's brain registered that she was supposed to curtsy, and she was half unaware of it when she did so. "Milord," she murmured in return.

"Pardon me," he said, still holding Guinevere's hand. "You were listening to my song, were you not?"

"Y-yes," Guinevere admitted hesitantly, entranced by the man's gaze. His eyes were a warm, charming caramel that seemed to melt her skin. "It was such a mournful melody. Whoever inspired you to such sadness?"

The man smiled slightly. "I do not know, Milady, for I have not met her yet." He tilted his head downward. "For the moment she exists only in my mind," he whispered teasingly, conspiratorially.

Guinevere studied him. "I find it hard to believe any woman would wish to treat you so ill."

"Perhaps I have yet to reach the proper lady." The man released her hand, only to offer up his arm. "True love is never painless or simple, Milady," he said smartly. "That is what makes it special."

Guinevere took his arm. "And how will you know when you discover this true love of yours?" she asked.

"Oh, I shall. She will be…" he shook his head, "unique. Bright like the moonlight, beautiful as a night sky, charming and good-natured, intelligent, with a love of children and music." He smiled, content with his imaginings. "That is what I hope she shall be."

"You hold this lady to very high standards, Milord." Guinevere walked with the man, gently lifting her skirt as they left the main hall and meandered down a quieter, emptier side hallway where they could clearly hear each other.

"I believe it is fair for me to have expectations," he replied smoothly. "Is it not better to hope for the best and be disappointed than to simply resign myself to someone less than extraordinary?"

The earnestness of his eyes touched Guinevere, and she felt a disturbing tingle go up her back. "What is your name, Milord?" she asked, knowing she shouldn't.

The two seated themselves on the stone bench of a small alcove. From that vantage point, Guinevere could just hear the noise of the celebrations wafting down the corridor. The torchlight was dimmer here, but the position was not so exclusive as to be hidden.

"I am called Lancelot," the man replied, inclining his head to her. "And you, Milady?"

Guinevere choked, knowing she could not reveal her identity, but not having actually thought that far ahead. "M-Morgana," she stuttered, using the first name that came to mind.

"Morgana?" Lancelot repeated, the name sounding odd on his tongue. "I am afraid I do not recall you, Lady Morgana. Have you come with the Princess's entourage?"

"Perhaps," Guinevere answered airily, fighting the pounding in her chest. "There are many new faces present this evening."

Lancelot threw back his head and laughed. "Indeed, though none of them may be distinguished due to these masks!"

It took Guinevere a moment, but she began to chortle as well. "The masque is not a custom of Camelot," she said with a shrug.

Lancelot scrutinized her carefully. "So you _are_ from Camelot, then?"

Guinevere held a finger up to her lips. "Perhaps."

He shook his head resignedly. "You intend to remain mysterious, Milady? Very well. I suppose I shall have to do my best to discover you as you are." He stood. "Shall we venture to find some wine? I believe it may aid me in loosening your tongue."

Guinevere gaped at him for a moment, until the twitch of his mouth gave him away, and she realized he was only teasing. "Certainly, Milord," she said, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her upright. "As long as you are willing to join me."

"As Milady insists," he replied, giving her his right arm, and two returned to the main dining hall.


	7. Chapter 7

WiltingDaisies94: Masques just get everyone in trouble. You've gotten Morgana's point of view, and Gwen's; time for someone else to take the wheel.

Read and enjoy. :)

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><p><span>Chapter 7<span>

"Watch your head," Arthur advised, reaching to move the lanky tree branch out of the lady's way. "The willows hang low here."

She ducked her head obligingly. "I do have eyes, Milord," the lady chided.

Arthur smiled. "And very lovely eyes they are, Milady."

She raised her eyebrows behind her mask. "What a unique statement," she deadpanned.

The King nodded his concession. It wasn't one of his best, admittedly, but he'd felt an almost irresistible compulsion to say it as it came to mind. "Do you like the gardens?" he asked hastily.

The lady pursed her lips thoughtfully. "They are somewhat dark, Milord, even for nighttime. You see that patch of low-growing flowers over there?"

He glanced over. "Yes."

"I should guess they seldom bloom, even in summertime."

Arthur looked at her, thinking about it. "That is true," he realized slowly. "How could you know that?"

"Some of us look, Milord." The lady shook her head, smiling. "That grove of trees there blocks the light." She fixed her mask. "The flowers are white primroses. Shading can be healthy for them, but a complete lack of sun is damaging, and the shadows of those trees fall directly in the path of the sun."

The King was genuinely surprised; most of the court ladies he knew could hardly tell a flower from a weed, much less name it. "Where did you learn that?" he asked.

The lady just laughed mysteriously. "My mother had a fondness for flowers. She kept a garden herself."

"A lady?" Arthur scoffed instinctively. "Working in a garden?"

The lady seemed oddly taken aback and stumbled into her response. "In-indeed. My mother was very protective of her plants."

The King shook his head. "A noblewoman, tending flowers in the dirt? I have never heard of such a thing."

The lady smiled, her composure regained. "Perhaps you should open your ears then, Milord," she suggested.

The two continued strolling, passing the grove of trees the lady had referred to. Arthur led her by the hand into a small maze of bushes, and final strains of celebratory drinking and merrymaking faded away.

"What is your mother like?" he asked inquisitively.

"Unfortunately, my mother has already passed on, Milord," the lady answered, a tinge of sadness in her voice.

"I apologize," Arthur said hastily. "Forgive me for asking, I was unaware."

She looked down. "There is no harm caused, Milord. This was some years ago." The lady turned her head to face him. "She was charming, my mother. She had a laugh like the sun shining after a storm, and the kindest eyes, blue as the sea."

Arthur nodded. "How old were you when she died?" he asked.

"Eight years of age," the lady replied quietly. "I cried for weeks."

The King took her hand and squeezed it gently. "I am sorry. My mother passed away as well, just after I was born. I never met her."

The lady returned the gesture. "I am certain she was lovely."

Arthur gave a half smile. "My father always told me so."

"A mother is a terrible thing to lack," the lady commented softly, "but perhaps you are the better for not knowing yours. When you do know her, have time to spend with her and love her…" she sighed. "Well, it simply aches that much more acutely once she is gone."

Arthur felt a stirring inside him at the bare honesty of her reply. He stopped walking, and the lady halted too. "Tell me your name," he whispered.

She seemed surprised by the abrupt nature of his request, but nonetheless shook her head. "After you, Milord."

The King frowned. "Are you refusing to declare yourself?" he asked, surprised at being declined.

"No," she replied with a shake of her head. "But you first, Milord."

Arthur furrowed his brow, unused to such boldness. He was about to say something, but just barely remembered that he was in disguise – to this lady he was not a king. "As you wish, Milady," he agreed, trying to adapt to the unusual feeling of following someone else's whims. "I am Leon."

"Leon?" the lady smiled. "The lion. But does it suit you, I wonder?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"The lion is a symbol of greatness, Milord. Bravery, strength, even majesty – the lion is, after all, king of the animals." The lady tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear with a free hand. "He is a proud creature though, and stubborn too."

Arthur smiled amusedly. "You have met many lions in your time, Milady?"

She looked at him appraisingly. "And if I have?"

"Then I should think you must be quite the woman to stare down such a foe."

"Why should you assume I was approached as an enemy?" she replied.

The King was thoughtful. "You speak truthfully, Milady. Even so selective a creature as a lion could not help but take to your spirit."

The lady made no reply, and the darkness covered her expression; Arthur could only hope she was flattered.

The two made their way around a corner trimmed with hedges, revealing a small, circular fountain. The stone was a faded yellow, cracked in some places, but the water was perfectly content with its place, calmly reflecting beams of moonlight off its surface. The central figure in the fountain was a winged child bent over double to fill an empty horn.

"Would you care for some sport, Milord?" the lady asked, her voice returning to a playful timbre.

"Sport?" Arthur was intrigued by the suggestion. "Of what sort, Milady?" The court ladies he knew mostly considered conversation a game in and of itself.

Then the lady did something even more unexpected. She bent down, scooped up a handful of rocks out of the dirt, and dropped some in Arthur's palm. "I hope you can aim, Milord."

Arthur was lost; he unconsciously moved the rocks between his fingers. "I beg your pardon?"

The lady laughed at his confusion. "The game is this. You see the downturned mouth of the horn?" She pointed to the fountain. "That is our target. If you can shoot the stone into the mouth without it bouncing out, then I will tell you a secret. If I manage the same task, you tell me a secret."

Arthur's face cleared and he began to smile. "Very well, Milady, I accept your challenge." He had not forgotten that the lady had yet to give him her name, and was intent on discovering it.

"Your shot first, Milord," she replied, tilting her head imperceptibly.

The King released her arm for the first time since they'd entered the garden. He was beginning to enjoy how this lady thought. He had never heard of this sport or such strange stakes. He had played and wagered with his friends over various games of cards or other contests of skill, but the reward was always money, not information. And, he thought, he had certainly never played a game of chance and aim with a lady.

And yet, Arthur found he was curious. Very curious. Gauging the distance between himself and the target, Arthur fingered one of the stones and tossed. The rock arced gracefully through the air and landed solidly in the horn's mouth.

Grinning cockily, he turned to his companion. "There you are, Milady. Now," he said, putting a hand under her chin, moving her gaze up to his. "Tell me your name."

The lady's smile never faltered. "No, Milord."

Arthur was surprised. "No? But you said –"

"I said, Milord," she interrupted, "that I would tell you a secret. I did not say that you could choose which secret that would be."

The King's mouth opened, and he tried unsuccessfully to formulate a response. She'd tricked him! With all her carefully chosen words, she had offered him a bargain that was quite useless to him. His pride flared, and he almost stepped away.

A light touch on his forearm stopped him. "You will have my name before the night is out, Milord," the lady said, sounding quite sincere. "I promise."

The King felt his irritation die down, and an impulse to move closer when she touched his arm. She was so… different.

"For now, however," the lady continued, "it is my turn." She turned her head toward the fountain, and lined up her shot.

Arthur simply watched her take aim, trying to decide if this woman was the most difficult or wonderful he'd ever met, and attempting to slow the surprisingly quick beating of his heart.


	8. Chapter 8

WiltingDaisies94: So after three chapters of masque, we're moving on a little bit. But no need to worry, you'll continue to find out what happened during the evening.

_Italics_ indicate flashback.

Remember: Arthur is calling himself Leon. He is with Morgana, but he **does not know** her name yet.

I am putting in their names (Arthur and Morgana) for your, the reader's, sake. You know who's out in the garden; but Arthur and Morgana **don't**.

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><p><span>Chapter 8<span>

"Oh Morgana, it was so wonderful!" Guinevere gushed, once safely returned to her chambers in the early hours of the morning. She giggled and kicked her feet in the air like an excited child. "All the dancing and feasting – I do love a good masque!"

Morgana shook her head disapprovingly, but an amused smile graced her features nonetheless. "Mistress, I do believe it possible you have had too much to drink this evening."

Guinevere laughed. "Nonsense, Morgana!"

The maid rolled her eyes. She was returned to her regular attire, the simple gown and apron appropriate for her station, and her protective mindset was back. "Heavens Milady, but you do make trouble. Here, drink this."

Guinevere took the cup from Morgana and sat up, still giggling slightly. "I cannot even begin to describe it," Guinevere said in between slurps, "I had such a marvelous time."

"I am certain you did, Milady, but for now you must take your drink and get some sleep. If you would care to remember, you are to be married tomorrow night, and I imagine His Majesty would be rather displeased if you laughed your way through the entire ceremony."

"Ha!" The princess snorted. "Oh His Highness. Poo." She made a face. "You worry entirely too much, Morgana. I did not even see His Majesty this evening."

Morgana almost laughed. "Milady, it was a _masque_, of course you did not see him. Presumably he was in disguise."

Guinevere made a contemptuous noise in the back of her throat. "Nonsense. I am certain I would have spotted His Royal Highness in all his political perfection. But," she snickered, "perhaps I was a bit… preoccupied."

Morgana took the drained cup from her mistress, shaking her head, too tired to argue.

Fortunately, the draught Morgana had given Guinevere was beginning to take effect. The princess snuggled down under her covers, and her eyelids began to droop. "It was a wonderful evening," Guinevere said, her voice much calmer. "Did you have a pleasant time, Morgana?"

The maid smiled faintly. "Yes, Milady. It was a lovely masque."

Guinevere gave one more gurgle, nodding in agreement, and then her eyes closed. She was out like an extinguished candle before she ever managed to ask Morgana to describe her evening further.

With an affectionate sigh, Morgana neatened her mistress's covers about her, and made her round through the chamber, blowing out the candles as she went.

It had been a nice celebration, she mused. It was too bad her mistress had fallen asleep so quickly. Once she awoke and regained her sense, it was highly unlikely Guinevere would ever tell Morgana what had made her evening so enjoyable (besides all the wine).

Morgana blew out the last light, and left the princess's chamber for her own small room. Moonlight drifted through the hallway windows, dancing faintly and inconsistently across the floors.

It made Morgana smile, at least until she closed the door to her bedroom behind her, where she promptly slumped to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

What had she been thinking, promising to meet Leon again?

The end of the evening rushed back to her like a gleeful pup intent on knocking over its master. How could she have been so impulsive…?

_"Yes!" Morgana cheered as her rock sailed perfectly into the now extremely full mouth of the horn, landing with a satisfying clink. She glanced up at her tall companion. "Your turn, Milord."_

_ Arthur smiled at her as if genuinely amused. "Please," he requested, "call me Leon, Milady. Simply Leon."_

_ "Very well," Morgana agreed slowly, ducking her head. "Your turn… Leon." She looked up. "Tell me a secret." _

_ He looked down at her, and she was surprised at the gentle glow his mask offered his eyes. "I have not enjoyed myself this much in a very long time," he admitted carefully, "and I wish to see you again." _

_Morgana's smile faded away, and the suspended, surreal quality of the night crashed away into nothingness. "What?" she gasped._

_ Arthur nodded vigorously, a smile playing about his lips. "Say it," he urged, taking her hands. "Say you will come see me again." _

_ "No," she replied assertively, quickly pulling away. "No, I cannot, I-I most certainly cannot!"_

_ Arthur's face fell as he immediately jumped to a conclusion. "You are married," he hissed, sounding angry, and even a bit jealous. "That is why you refuse me!"_

_ "What? No, of course not!" Moved by the absurdity of the conversation, Morgana stepped forward, reaching out her hands to cup his face. "Of course not, Leon."_

_ He took a breath. "Do not lie to me, Milady," he warned._

_"Milord..." She shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around his accusation. "I would not, never. I am unwed, you have my word." Morgana moved her left hand into his line of vision, displaying the lack of a wedding band. "See?"_

_ Arthur released the breath he'd been holding, calming his irrational reaction. "Then why?" he asked, his voice lowering, reclaiming her hands penitently. "Why do you deny me?"_

_ "Because," Morgana replied, trying very hard not to look away from him and frighten herself out of explaining, "it is not real, Milord." She shook her head, too many thoughts racing each other to her mouth at once. "None of this is real."_

_ Arthur let out a relieved laugh. "Milady, you jest." He pulled her hands, bringing her closer, until their faces were only centimeters apart. "This feeling is real; every thought pondered, every word spoken this evening has been flawlessly real."_

_ Morgana searched his expression, her chest suddenly aching. "No." She shook her head. "It is too good to be real. Too wonderful and perfect and…" she sighed. "I would like to come again, Milord, truly I would. But I cannot." She knew it was late; Guinevere would be searching her out. "Do not ask my reasons," she whispered. "I beg you."_

_ Arthur raised her left hand and kissed the back of it, letting his lips rest gently for a moment. "Please, Milady," he said simply. "Please."_

_ Morgana felt tears threatening in her eyes. "No, Milord," she refused, trying to pull away._

_ He held her fast. "Come masked," Arthur offered alternatively, and he sounded inspired by his own thoughts. "Meet me in three days time, here, in the garden, at midnight." He nodded to himself. "But wear your mask."_

_ Morgana shook her head and stepped back. "What?"_

_ "Milady, I do not know who you are," Arthur admitted, "and I do not know what makes you hesitate so." He took a breath. "All I am aware of is that I feel more alive than I have been in a long time, and that you are the inspiration." He pulled her forward. "So keep your mask and so will I; say only that you will meet me again." _

_'No' was the logical response and the correct answer; it pounded ferociously in Morgana's mind. "I…I…" she struggled with words, battling with herself, struggling with reality and fantasy. _

_"I…" Am a servant. Am not a noble. _

_"I…" Must say no, no, no! _

_"I shall, Milord," she whispered._

_ Arthur's face lit up. "Truly?" he asked, as if he had hardly dared believe she would acquiesce._

_ Morgana swallowed and nodded shakily. "Yes. Truly, I shall. I promise." She retracted her hands. "But now the time has come for me to bid you farewell, Milord." She turned to go, still reeling from her decision._

_ "Wait!" Arthur called after her. "Your name, Milady. Please, I must know!"_

_ Morgana bit her lip, cursing herself for turning around to look back at him. His face was so enraptured, sincere, hopeful… she breathed deeply. "Juliana," she said, borrowing the name of one of Guinevere's distant relations. "Good night, Milord." She curtsied and fled._

Heavens! Morgana took her head out of her hands and wiped at her eyes. What had she done?


	9. Chapter 9

WiltingDaisies94: Post masque, now time for a chapter with Merlin in it (I love his character, and Colin Morgan comes across as so sweet, it is impossible not to adore him). Although Merlin will get his own plot later, for now you're going to hear from Lancelot, who like Gwen has had a very good, thirsty time at the masque.

An additional note/recap - it is very important that you keep in mind who is calling themselves who; it is crucial to the plot that you remember!

**Arthur** - Leon

**Morgana** - Juliana

**Guinevere **- Morgana

Furthermore, in this story, please make the assumption that if two characters haven't had a scene together, they haven't met each other yet (for example, Merlin doesn't know Morgana at this point).

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><p><span>Chapter 9<span>

"I tell you, Merlin, she was perfect." Lancelot shook his head, starry-eyed. "It was like destiny striking down out of the clouds and presenting me with a vision." He sighed rapturously. "No, even that does not do her justice. She was a goddess, an angel, a blue moon deity."

Merlin chuckled at his giddy friend. "Glad to know someone had a pleasant time at the masque." He rubbed his hands together. "I have yet to see His Majesty, but I am expecting an earful while I attend him. He was less than pleased with the whole idea to begin with."

"Well, whoever kept his mind from changing has my eternal gratitude." The knight sipped from his goblet, suddenly pensive. "She was so…"

"Perfect?" Merlin offered amusedly. "You have mentioned that once or twice, you know."

Lancelot shrugged, unabashed. "I cannot help myself, Merlin. I feel as if some greater force has brought us together and… it is difficult to express… it _requires_ us to connect." He drank from his goblet. "I asked her to meet me again," he admitted, grinning.

Merlin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at his friend, thinking it might be time to take away his wine. "How precisely do you plan to make that happen?"

"What do you mean by that?" Lancelot asked brightly, oblivious to all logic.

"Was the lady not masked the entire time?" Merlin tilted his head. "I doubt you would recognize her if she walked right past you."

"Ah, but there you are wrong, Merlin." Lancelot smiled cockily, waving his goblet so the liquid was in great danger of spilling.

"Oh?" Merlin took a drink from his own well-balanced goblet. "What does she look like then?"

"Er," Lancelot hesitated, blinking. "Well…beautiful."

Merlin was clearly unimpressed. "Mhm. Her eyes?" he prompted. "Her skin? Her hair? Describe her to me."

Lancelot frowned. "Well, I… I mean her eyes were… brown, I think." His wine-addled brain was less than clear on the subject. "Maybe hazel?"

Merlin snorted and shook his head. "Very convincing, my friend."

"Oh very well, you rotten boy," Lancelot said, smacking Merlin in the back of the head. "Maybe I do not know precisely what the lady looks like, but," he said, holding up a wobbly finger, "I have something better than that."

"Really?" Merlin rubbed the spot Lancelot had hit, cracking his neck."Ouch. And what is that, Oh Brave and Descriptively Challenged Sir Lancelot?"

The knight smirked over the rim of his goblet. "Her name."

Merlin's eyebrows shot up. "Oh." He coughed awkwardly, taken aback. "Yes, I can see how that might be of use."

Lancelot smiled fondly at his friend and the knight's expression gave everything away. "I will meet her again, Merlin. After the King is wed and the tourney is over."

Merlin looked curiously at Lancelot. "You plan to win," he realized, the idea dawning on him. "You plan to win the tourney for this anonymous lady of yours."

Lancelot nodded his head heavily. "The thought had crossed my mind, yes," he answered, trying to affect indifference and failing spectacularly.

Merlin whistled low. "You do know this is His Majesty's marital tourney – he will be giving his all to win." He shook his head disbelievingly. "I imagine he would not take defeat kindly, favored knight or otherwise."

Even tipsy, Lancelot had the good grace to look somewhat guilty. "I know. But I cannot stop my heart, Merlin." He shrugged helplessly, his tone dreamy. "I am in love."

Merlin, once more finding himself the practical one, shook his head. "Lancelot, you know I am your friend, which is why I am obliged to say this to you: wake up."

The knight looked at Merlin, nonplussed. "What?"

"Look," Merlin expounded, "you have only just met this lady, and diluted or otherwise, you cannot even describe to me what she looks like. Frankly, you sound like a love struck child, and therefore it is my duty, as your friend, to tell you that you are rushing into this far too quickly for a sane man."

Lancelot chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. "Merlin, my friend, I fear perhaps it has been too long a time since you were last in love to remember the feeling."

Merlin felt a pang in his chest, but carefully overlooked it; he knew Lancelot was hardly hearing himself. "Time does not remove the memory, Lancelot," he remarked. "I recall the sensation quite well."

Lancelot grimaced awkwardly. "I am sorry, Merlin, I did not mean to imply…" he trailed off. "I am sorry."

"How does she make you feel?" Merlin asked suddenly, moving on. "Forget what she looks like – not that you seem to know, anyway – and tell me." His voice was very serious. "This lady of yours. How does she make you feel? When you touch her hand or hold her gaze?"

"Calm." Lancelot paused and thought about it, answering with an impressive sobriety. "Like nothing could dampen my spirit. Like the whole world could come crashing down and life would still be perfect, provided she were by my side. She put this warm feeling in my chest, right here." He put a hand over his heart. "There is a candle, burning, with her name inscribed on it."

Merlin looked at him expectantly, curiously, understandingly. "And?"

"It is carved into my head, Merlin." Lancelot shuddered. "Behind my eyes, I see it, engraved upon my eyelids."

Merlin considered his besotted companion. "You really think you love her," he commented slowly.

Lancelot laughed softly. "I told you," he said hopelessly.

Merlin breathed out. "I cannot believe it."

"That would make two of us." Lancelot set down his goblet. "After all this time, I, Lancelot DuLac, knight of Camelot, am in love." He grinned fantastically. "I have finally met the perfect lady."

Merlin shook his head, too tired to continue arguing. "Well, my friend, I wish you much luck with your newfound passion," he said skeptically. "I simply advise you not to do anything too irrevocably stupid before you truly know this lady." He clapped Lancelot on the back and heaved himself to his feet.

"Well, thank you," Lancelot replied genuinely, the sarcasm lost on him. "But – wait a moment, where are you going?" he asked.

"I have to attend to His Majesty," Merlin answered. "He will want to gripe at me for a while, if I do not miss my guess."

Lancelot chuckled. "He really is helpless without you, is he not, Merlin?"

"His Majesty would beg to differ." Merlin shrugged his thin shoulders.

"Well, for what it is worth to you, Merlin, I do appreciate your help and company." Lancelot refilled his goblet and raised it in a toast to Merlin, saying fairly lucidly, "I will consider your words, my friend."

Merlin inclined his head. "You know why I caution you, Lancelot. I wish only for your happiness, and ladies are sometimes not so kindly as they appear." His voice dropped to a quiet murmur. "Know first who it is you love, or risk your heart needlessly."

Lancelot nodded. "Cheers, Merlin," he said.

The manservant gave a flicker of a smile and bade his inebriated friend a good night, setting out for the King's apartments.


	10. Chapter 10

WiltingDaisies94: Sorry for the lack of update, I have been a bit distracted for the last week or so. To make it up, have a chapter with Arthur/Morgana and Arthur/Merlin!

_Italics_ indicate flashback.

Remember: Arthur is calling himself Leon. Morgana is calling herself Juliana.

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><p><span>Chapter 10<span>

The King sat stolidly in front of the fireplace, staring raptly into the flames.

_'Juliana.'_

Merry tongues of heat danced enthusiastically in the hearth, leaping gracefully, reflecting in the King's unblinking eyes.

_'Juliana.'_

Her voice echoed, spinning around and around in his head, sounding the four enchanting syllables of her name.

_'Juliana.'_

Arthur shook his head subconsciously, gaze never leaving the fire. She had given him her name, and he had been too much a coward to do the same honestly. Leon. He had told her he was Leon – one of his best knights to be sure, but nonetheless a complete lie.

He sighed in frustration. What other choice had he had, though? One could not simply announce that he was the King of Camelot and then expect the same treatment as an anonymous noble. Impossible.

And, his conscience surely reprimanded him, there was always the minor matter of his impending marriage, which he had neglected to consider.

Arthur put a hand over his eyes, feeling a hypocrite. He had accused her of being married, yet he had hardly mentioned his own affianced status. And for all his worry, his inexplicable, immediate jealousy, she was unattached. He shuddered; it rather amazed him how upset he'd become at the thought of her being married.

_'Juliana.'_

And despite all that, all the logic fighting in his head, he had asked her to meet him again. That same unusual impulse that had forced him to give a false name had roared in his gut and required him to see her once more. His heart beat faster at the thought.

Arthur rested his chin in his hand, frowning. He was hardly a blushing youth, fumbling and awkward (like Merlin, who was helplessly tongue-tied with girls). No, Arthur had had ladies in his bed before, each as beautiful and charming as the last, but none of them had ever struck him as exceptional. The court was full of attractive ladies for his choosing – why limit himself? As King, it was his option to take his pleasures as he liked, where and whenever.

And yet…

_'Juliana.'_

Infernal! He fumed to himself. What was this feeling? She was different, this Lady Juliana. So… real.

No… "feigning" as Merlin would call it. No attempt to charm him away, steal his heart and sway his political power. His traitorous mind was holding Lady Juliana up against Princess Guinevere. She was not trying to impress him with her proper, ladylike qualities, that much was clear. He had certainly never met a noblewoman who would or could climb out a window… or knew how to tend a garden… or undertook games and wagering faster than dancing.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair; he hadn't seen much of her, only strands of her dark hair, and the sparkle of her eyes. Her mask had covered the top half of her face and the darkness had done its work well; although Arthur assumed she was lovely, he could not have picked her out of a crowd.

He groaned deeply. And of course, he thought, now was the time he had met this beautiful, lively lady, now when he was no longer available to seek love. With the Princess Guinevere finally arrived (not that he had seen her during the masque) Arthur was bound to follow through with their engagement.

Perfect.

_"Your turn to confess, Milady." Arthur straightened up. The horn was half full, and it was becoming more difficult to land the stones inside without them bouncing out. "Tell me a secret," he commanded playfully._

_ Morgana smiled and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. "Let me think."_

_ Arthur watched her, enjoying her pensive face, his lips moving into a smile of their own._

_ "I learned to whistle when I was a child," she said suddenly, "from the birds outside my window. They used to sing the same little tune over and over again." Morgana put her lips together and demonstrated, whistling a quick melody - several little bursts of air, followed by a long, drawn out tone. "I heard it every morning as a little girl, and eventually I began to imitate the sound." She whistled it again. "Like so."_

_ The childish story brought the small smile on Arthur's face to its full potential. "May I try?" he asked curiously._

_ Morgana laughed, nodding. "Certainly, Milord."_

_ Arthur moved his lips and tried, failing to pull off the short blasts correctly._

_ "No, not quite," Morgana chuckled. "Pulse the inside of your cheek; you should feel the movement throughout your mouth. And move your lips back a bit, they are too far forward." She laughed as his second attempt failed as well. "No, here." She raised her hand and gently touched the corners of his mouth, pushing down gently. "Like this."_

_ Arthur looked down at her, very aware of her touch on his mouth. Willfully he relaxed his lips and tried the whistle again._

_ "Closer," Morgana whispered, retracting her hand, still gazing up at him. A moment of silence passed between them before she drew back. "My shot," she said slowly, turning back to the fountain._

So perfectly real; her touch, her scent, her spirit. Arthur sighed and tried to imagine her fingers ghosting across his lips again.

"Good evening, Sire."

Arthur's troubled thoughts were interrupted by Merlin's appearance. His servant had wandered in silently, and he bowed shortly as he approached his master's seat. "Shall we get you out of your costume and into bed for the evening?"

Mutely, the King raised himself from his seat, moving with a trancelike, preoccupied quality behind the dressing screen. He'd flung his mask down long before, and it lay across the room, glinting pathetically in the firelight.

"Was the masque to your liking, Majesty?" Merlin began to turn down the bedding, chatting amiably over his shoulder in the King's direction.

"Hm." Arthur busied himself with loosening his belt. He removed his tunic, tuning out Merlin's chatter, and bent down to take off his boots.

"I just spoke with Lancelot," Merlin continued, oblivious to his master's internal struggle. "It seems he has had his poor heart charmed right out from beneath his nose. This very evening he is proclaiming love as wholeheartedly and enthusiastically as a smitten troubadour."

"Fine, fine," Arthur muttered, slipping off his trousers.

Merlin looked up, shooting his master a queer look; usually the King was impatient with Lancelot's melancholy moods. Despite Arthur's own sporadic interest in finding love, he had always found Lancelot's insistent notions rather trying.

"He is also planning to win your wedding tourney," Merlin added, glancing over his shoulder, purposefully goading the King.

"Mm, of course." Arthur grabbed his nightshirt from the top of the dressing screen, his lips tightly pressed together.

Merlin raised his eyebrows at the lack of response. "And I might choose now to mention that I accidentally lost that very expensive dagger your father gave you for your eighteenth birthday."

"Oh? Yes, well, very good, Merlin," Arthur replied, coming out from behind the screen. "All in order, then."

That was the tipping point for Merlin, who, although not completely above taking advantage of his master's disorientation, was genuinely concerned for Arthur's sanity and future happiness. "Sire?" he prompted, "what has you so distracted this evening? You clearly have not heard a word I just said."

"Hm? Oh." Arthur seated himself on the bed. He looked for a moment as if he had something worth telling Merlin, but he eventually shook his head, thinking better of it. "I have had a long night, Merlin." He settled beneath the coverlet agitatedly. "I require my rest. Just put out the candles and then you are dismissed."

Merlin raised his eyebrows and frowned, unsure what to make of His Majesty's bizarre, introverted mood. "As you wish, Sire." He turned to perform the task, but stooped after taking a few steps. "Shall I dispose of this, Majesty?"

"No!" Arthur bolted up in bed as he caught sight of the golden mask in Merlin's hand. "I mean, no," he repeated, trying to calm his response, "just leave it on the table, Merlin."

"Yes, Sire," Merlin said hesitantly, placing the mask down as if it were afire. "Apologies."

Arthur nodded, looking almost contrite for his harsh reaction, but was unable to say anything. "I must have my rest," he muttered again, lowering himself to the mattress once more.

Merlin bowed, suspicious prickles of unease running up the back of his neck as he bade Arthur goodnight.


	11. Chapter 11

WiltingDaisies94: Hey guys, time for another chapter. I have a couple of quick things to address first, though:

1. I've had a lot of requests for more Arthur/Morgana (Leon/Juliana as they know each other) scenes, but as much as I adore them, there is a story here. There are plenty of characters, and they need to interact as well. I love ArMor as helplessly as I'm sure you all do, and of course they're very important, but not every chapter can be about them.

2. I wish this site would let me post this story under Gwen/Lancelot too. Even if they're not your favorite couple, consider that a) they love each other in the legend, and b) wouldn't you rather Gwen taken by someone other than Arthur, who is obviously meant for Morgana? And who knows, maybe you'll come to like Gwen and Lance as a couple; please give them a chance!

3. I'd love your help getting this story around the ArMor community. We are very small in number, unfortunately, and considering that the show has just married Gwen and Arthur and turned Morgana (still awesome) into an evil witch, we need some way to console ourselves. If this story cheers you up at all, please let it do the same for someone else!

With all that said (points if you actually read through all that), time for story!

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><p><span>Chapter 11<span>

"I pronounce you Guinevere, Queen of Camelot." Arthur placed the heavy crown on his wife's head as gently as he could. He felt her neck tremble slightly at the new weight, and paused a moment before pulling back.

Guinevere rose slowly, taking Arthur's outstretched hands gratefully. Even royal breeding only went so far with balancing several pounds of solid gold on one's head. Guinevere managed a small smile for her husband, an unspoken thanks.

Arthur faced the crowd. "From this day forth there shall be a great alliance between Camelot and Carmelide," he began in a raised voice, "a peace such as never before seen. Together our two kingdoms shall prosper beyond our grandest imaginings." Arthur paused to place a polite peck on Guinevere's hand. "Long live the Queen!" he prompted.

"Long live the Queen!" the crowd enthusiastically responded. "Long live the Queen!"

Arthur held out his arm, and Guinevere placed her hand lightly down on it. Together the royal couple descended the raised platform as the crowd filled the hall with cheers. The mighty roar of "long live the Queen" echoed off the walls and resounded against the high ceiling; the couple passed through an open aisle to the sound of thunderous applause.

"Make way for their Majesties!" The guards standing by the entrance pulled the doors wide to allow the royals through.

The hallways were lined with flowers, the walls bedecked with banners and tapestries. The torchlight flared, shaming away the darkness that edged towards the weathered stone of the gallery.

The end of the hallway forked, and this was where the king and queen parted. The wedding ceremony had been an arduous affair, furnished with the necessary pomp and pageantry. It was assumed their Majesties would require a brief respite from the day's excitement before the wedding feast began.

"Milady." Arthur bent and kissed Guinevere's hand with all the gallantry of a king. He felt compelled to say something about how he looked forward to partaking in her company later that evening, but could find no combination of words that did not sound either overly familiar or have inappropriate implications. "Rest well," was the best he could do.

"Milord." Guinevere glanced down demurely, dropping a swift curtsy. She tried to think of something more to add, some gesture to indicate that she was not made of ice, but she was uncomfortable touching his hand or cheek; the gesture simply didn't seem natural. "I shall," she eventually replied, smiling faintly.

"Good," Arthur said, a bit too quickly. "Until this evening, then."

"Until then." With a nod of her head, Guinevere was escorted away by a retinue of maids and guards.

She listened to the King's footsteps fade behind her, and let out a breath she hardly knew she'd been holding. Standing next to Arthur, trying her hardest to keep eye contact… her head still reeled from the notion that she was a married woman.

"Leave me," Guinevere ordered the gaggle of ladies-in-waiting who had followed her from the hall. "And one of you, fetch my maid. I require her attendance at once."

A chorus of "Your Majesty" greeted her in response, accompanied by the swift rustling of long skirts as the entire collection of women curtsied as one. Quick feet stepped across the floors and retreated; Guinevere did not turn around until she was certain she was alone.

When only the emptiness of the chamber surrounded her, Guinevere took a shuddering breath and seated herself before the lifeless embers glowing in the fireplace. The sun was setting, and the last streams of red light had disappeared; Guinevere knew she should have been shivering, but her physical self did not feel the cold.

A breeze fluttered through the open window, skittering across Guinevere's neck. The Queen's neck. She shook her head, trying to wrap her head around the new title. She was a queen. The Queen of Camelot.

"Your Majesty." Morgana entered the room swiftly, closing the door softly behind her.

Guinevere shook her head, unaware of her own vehemence, staring into the cold hearth. "Not you, Morgana," she said, hearing her own voice demand from very far away. "Still Milady. Not Majesty."

Morgana did not contradict her mistress. "Certainly, Milady." She felt goosebumps run along her arms; the room was chilly, and had an ominously empty feeling. "Give me just a moment and I will have the fire lit." She tried to sound cheerfully, and busied herself with renewing the flames. "It would do us no good to have the bride frozen on her wedding day."

Guinevere put a hand to her face, absentmindedly touching her lips. Pulling away a moment later, she looked at her hand, realizing her fingers were wet. She felt her cheek, only just recognizing that it was kissed with tears.

"Milady?" Morgana abandoned the now steadily growing fire, and hurried over to Guinevere's seat, kneeling by her side. The firelight flickered steadily across the Queen's face, illuminating the few, silent tears slipping down her face.

Guinevere examined her fingers with a surprised disinterest. "Odd," she murmured to herself. She rubbed her fingertips together, as if unconvinced of the tears' existence. "I do not remember calling for these."

Morgana looked concernedly at her mistress, frowning. "What ails you, Milady?"

Guinevere's eyes hardly saw her maid. "Ale?" she asked. "Thank you, but not at present, Morgana."

Concern turned to worry and Morgana placed her hands on Guinevere's face. "This is incorrect, Milady," she said, frowning, feeling her mistress's cheeks and forehead. "You are not feverish, yet neither are you yourself." She stood up. "Let us remove this, shall we?"

Gently, Morgana eased the crown off her mistress's head. "Heavens," she exclaimed, "it is so heavy!" She laid down the golden piece on a nearby table. "What deranged artisan constructed this to be supported by a delicate, slender neck?"

Without the crown Guinevere looked much like her usual self, and seemed to come to her senses. "I am married, Morgana," were the first words she spoke. She no longer sounded sorrowful or odd, but rather confused. "I am a queen now."

"You are, Milady." Morgana knelt again, and took her mistress's hands. "And you are ready for the task." She stroked carefully with her thumbs. "You will be an amazing queen. Who could know better than I?"

Guinevere looked at her friend. "I did not anticipate this, Morgana," she said queerly.

"What is it, Milady?" Morgana asked comfortingly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Guinevere's ear. "Tell me."

"I am afraid."

It was a simple admission, three small words that carried all the weight of the world with them. She was not a woman lacking in pride or bravery, yet Guinevere, Princess of Carmelide, and now Queen of Camelot, was frightened.

"It would be strange should you to feel otherwise, Milady." Morgana soothed. "To become a wife is excitement aplenty for a single day, but becoming queen as well… of course you are anxious."

"In two hours time, maybe three," Guinevere continued, irked and beginning to sound much more like herself, "the King will require my presence. And as he is now my lord and husband, I shall be expected to obey." The snap had returned to her voice. "And after much attention and jesting, we shall go to the marriage bed and consummate our…" she wrinkled her nose in distaste, "alliance."

Morgana bit her lip thoughtfully. "Does that frighten you, Milady?"

"No." Guinevere's voice was firm. "Princess or otherwise, I know enough on the topic of consummation." She rolled her eyes. "Not all the maids in my father's palace were as maidenly as they claimed."

Guinevere shook her head. "The difference, however, is that they took their pleasures with the men who suited their fancies. And here I am, married to a man I know almost nothing of, who I feel I shall not love, and nonetheless it is my duty to relieve him." She sighed heavily. "What will it be like, I wonder?" she added sarcastically.

Morgana would not lie to her mistress. "Painful, I have heard, at least to begin with." She touched Guinevere's face. "If the King is a good man he will be gentle with you."

Guinevere grimaced. "I do not want this, Morgana," she admitted with perfect clearheaded confidence. "But I shall be resigned to the task." She pasted on a smile, lifting her head. "For Carmelide, for my father… for everyone but myself." She cleared her throat. "I am the Queen of Camelot now; it is my duty."

Morgana stood and pulled her mistress to her feet. "Let us prepare you for the feast, shall we?"

"Will you braid my hair once I am done dressing?" Guinevere asked.

Morgana chuckled. She was able to weave beautiful braids into even the most difficult hair, but for her mistress it was always a special treat. Guinevere had extremely long hair, reaching nearly to the backs of her knees, and braiding it took an extended period of time. Morgana acquiesced to the task only very rarely.

The maid nodded. "If you behave yourself while I dress you, then I shall."

Guinevere smiled and threw her arms around her maid. "Thank you!" she whispered into Morgana's ear.

"Of course, Milady," she replied, squeezing her maiden mistress tightly for the last time. "Always."


	12. Chapter 12

WiltingDaisies94: May I just say, I love writing this story? Usually I will have these great ideas, sit down and write the first fourteen chapters in a week, and then completely lose my interest in it. But with MaM I always want time to sit down and do more!

This chapter is the one we have all been waiting for (well, I have, anyway) - the wedding night. The first time we see Gwen and Arthur together... and it is going to be awkward... so get excited!

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><p><span>Chapter 12<span>

The bridal chamber was entirely arranged for the comfort of the royal couple. The room was warm, a cheery fire burning brightly in the hearth. Candles dotted the chamber, their flickering flames casting shadows on the floor, reflecting in the window glass and off the crystal vases that stood on every available surface.

A tranquil shade of purple pervaded the room; the flora ranged in color from periwinkle to plum, and the scent of lavender wafted gently from wall to wall. A small basin and water jug stood off to the side of the bed, which was veiled. Layers of gauzy materials floated down from the canopy, covering the interior.

Arthur entered the chamber, his cloak swishing behind him. The feast had been pleasant, almost enticing enough to divert his interest. He'd been oddly serene, accepting the congratulations of his guests and the jesting of his friends and knights. He'd taken his wine gratefully, which had somewhat served in settling his stomach.

The Queen had sat next to him, dressed in a lovely silver gown that showed her figure flatteringly. Arthur was not blind; he knew that his bride was very attractive, and he had attempted to be as amiable and attentive as possible.

He had been succeeding more or less; he'd even made his new wife laugh once or twice. That same smile that had first warded him off he discovered to be charming. Her dark hair was braided in a beautiful, complicated fashion, and after a second, more calming glass of wine, Arthur felt himself warming to Guinevere.

But then he'd caught a glimpse of red fabric out of the corner of his eye. Instantly his head had whipped around, his eyes searching out the woman who had been so intriguing only an evening earlier.

Disappointment settled in his throat as he realized it was simply the trail of a particularly sharp scarlet cloak one of his guests had adopted for the occasion. He forced himself to breathe normally and mentally count off the number of ladies wearing red. She could be anyone, he reminded himself, any woman at all.

Unfortunately, the encounter had rather hollowed out the inside of his chest, reminding Arthur of the promise she'd made to meet him again. Along with that thought came the aching reminder that he was now married, which in turn brought on feelings of resentment. Arthur had schooled himself into calmness; these were not thoughts to be struggled with on his wedding night. This evening was strictly among him, Guinevere, and Camelot.

And yet…

"Good evening, Sire."

Arthur rotated on the spot. His wife had entered the chamber, and Arthur had been too far gone in his thoughts to notice. "Milady." He bowed.

She shook her head. "Guinevere," she corrected.

"Milady Guinevere," he said, repeating his bow.

She smiled. "No," she said, though she sounded amused. "Simply Guinevere. You are my husband now, Milord." She looked at him intently. "There is no reason you should call me by my title."

He nodded. "Very well. Perhaps we should be reacquainted, then." He approached his wife and took her hand. "Arthur," he said, bending to kiss it. "How do you fare this evening?"

She curtsied. "Guinevere," she said. "And I am quite well, thank you. Perhaps a bit warm," she added, "but nonetheless content."

Arthur agreed. "It is a touch stuffy in here, is it not? If you would permit, Mi-" he paused, "Guinevere, I would very much like to be rid of this cloak. It does little to save me from roasting like a stuck pig."

Guinevere chuckled. "Certainly," she replied. "Would you perhaps care for a drink, Milord?" She put a hand to her mouth and smiled abashedly. "I apologize, let me try again." She cleared her throat. "Would you care for a drink…Arthur?"

"I would, in fact," he replied, removing his heavy cloak and settling it across the back of a nearby chair. "Thank you, Guinevere." He was attempting to use her name as often as possible, to please her, but it sat heavily in his mouth.

"You are welcome," she answered, moving past him to busy herself with filling two goblets with a sweet wine. A small table off to the right of the fireplace supported a jug of the liquid, and twin goblets studded with emeralds sat dutifully beside it.

Arthur looked around for something to do with himself. "Guinevere is quite a long name," he stated. "Has no one ever called you by something simpler?"

Guinevere thought about it. "My brother called me Gwen when we were children," she replied. "But that was a very long time ago."

"Gwen?" Arthur decided to relocate two of the elaborate wooden chairs with amethysts carved into the backs. "It suits you."

An unfortunate choice of words; Arthur's ears distinctly recalled Juliana's voice in his head. _"Leon? The lion. But does it suit you, I wonder?"_

No! He shook his head, trying his hardest to forget about the Lady Juliana, with her flowing name that didn't require any shortening.

No!

"I suppose it does." Guinevere returned to see the new seating arrangement. She handed a goblet to Arthur, which he gratefully accepted.

"Thank you, Gwen." He took the goblet and drank. "Please, sit."

She slipped into the closer chair. Arthur had rearranged them to almost face each other, and pulled them back from the fireplace.

Arthur joined her and the two sat without saying anything for a few minutes. The fireplace crackled and popped, trying to fill the quiet, as the king and queen sipped their wine at intervals, each trying to think of something to say.

When the silence reached a truly uncomfortable point, Arthur coughed. "So," he said, "do you like… flowers?"

"Flowers?" Guinevere looked at him strangely. "They are nice enough."

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling foolish. "Of course."

There was more silence between them.

"Do you enjoy music?" Guinevere asked.

Arthur sipped his wine. "Not particularly." He shook his head. "Truthfully I know little about it. My father did not dictate music as part of my education." He shrugged. "I studied swordplay, family genealogy, history, language, warfare and strategy… but never music."

"Oh." Guinevere hid her disappointment. "Yes, I suppose music is not strictly necessary in a king's education."

"Indeed." Arthur nodded.

The two were quiet again, each having exactly the same thought, and neither one aware of it. Arthur was doing his best not to think about Lady Juliana's merry eyes, and Guinevere was trying her hardest not to remember Lancelot's singing.

Arthur put his goblet down, and the clink it produced sounded endlessly louder than it should have.

Guinevere looked up.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I…it…it was empty." Arthur winced as the words came out of his mouth; it was likely one of the stupidest sentences he had ever uttered.

Guinevere took pity on him, and leaned over the arm of her chair. "I suppose it is best to have put it down, then."

Arthur moved towards her. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. He stood up and held out a hand to her.

She took it.

The two faced each other. Arthur placed a hand on Guinevere's cheek and slowly leaned down. He touched her lips softly, waiting for a response.

Guinevere's mind went nearly blank as she felt her husband's kiss for the first time. It was simple, not intrusive… but not what she was looking for. She felt a horrible guilt settle in her chest as the only thought that entered her head was, '_I wonder how a kiss from Lancelot would compare?'_

Rather than focusing on that, Guinevere shoved the reflection roughly out of her head and tried to consider Arthur. She did like his hands on her waist, and if a bit awkward, he was certainly courteous enough. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up, trying to inspire herself.

It came to her mind almost before she could stop it. "_I believe it is fair for me to have expectations,"_ rang through her head_. "Is it not better to hope for the best and be disappointed than to simply resign myself to someone less than extraordinary?" _

As Arthur pulled her closer to him, Guinevere sighed internally. Even for all her new husband's charm and careful attention, it was going to be a very long evening.


	13. Chapter 13

WiltingDaisies94: Okay, time for lucky thirteen (or unlucky, in Gwen's case). After an awkward and unsatisfying night with Arthur, Gwen is about to discover something much, much worse than disappointing lovemaking ...

After all, just because you know someone's name, does not mean you know who they are.

Please read, enjoy, and drop me a line!

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><p><span>Chapter 13<span>

The tourney had commenced early in the morning, and Guinevere arrived about halfway through the competition, missing the earliest bouts. She sat in an elevated cedar chair with a perfect view of the field. All the jousting she'd seen thus far had been intense, and her husband had risen through the ranks easily.

The final round was about to begin, and the two riders entered the field. The king, wearing his chainmail and the Pendragon coat of arms, was seated atop his favorite stallion. The strawberry roan-coated charger whinnied and tossed its head into the air, beating its hooves impatiently on the ground.

His opponent took the field from the other side, mounted on a grey stallion, a blue coat of arms on his front. Guinevere did not recognize him, but he rode well, driving his horse into a confident stride while the spectators roared excitedly.

"This should be quite the match," a voice behind Guinevere's left ear murmured. She unconsciously focused on the sound, trying to hear over the noise of the crowd.

"I imagine so," the voice's companion answered. "His Majesty has been putting up quite an impressive fight – he seems very intent on winning."

"I should think so," the first voice replied with a snort. "It is the king's wedding tourney, after all."

The second voice chuckled. "Yes, I daresay His Majesty would sooner bed his own manservant than lose this tourney to another. He fights with the strength of a lion today."

"True, but I would not be so quick to make assumptions, my friend." The first voice clucked its tongue teasingly. "Not with this sort of competition."

The second voice laughed heartily. "What, you mean Lancelot?"

Guinevere tensed at the name; she fervently wished the cheering would die down and leaned back as covertly as she could, now listening intently.

"Precisely." Voice number one was speculative. "Although Lancelot is the King's best and most favorite knight, he too fights with surprising vigor."

The second voice paused to consider. "He did seem unusually accurate in his matches this morning." A ruffle of cloth indicated that the man had shrugged. "But still, I would not consider Lancelot as consistent a victor as His Majesty."

"Oh? Would you care to put money on that, friend?" the first voice eagerly asked.

The companion chuckled. "Thank you, but my purse has already suffered enough at your expense, _friend_."

At that point Guinevere tuned out, consumed by her own thoughts. The man she'd met, the beautiful musician, _he_ was the knight currently jousting against her husband? The man riding on that enormous stallion, brandishing a deadly lance, _he_ was the one she had imagined to be a gentle poet?

She felt her chest contract, as if something had jabbed her heart. The King's favorite knight? The man she'd been so attracted to, spent a perfect evening with; he was also the knight her new husband trusted more than any other.

Guinevere swallowed, suddenly lightheaded. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe deeply and steady her racing pulse. What had she done? She had promised to meet Lancelot again, despite knowing that she would be wedded by then. But that hadn't mattered at the time, not with all the wine she'd consumed and his anonymous state.

But now… oh Gods above. She began to shiver.

"Your Majesty?" One of her ladies-in-waiting – Maria, Mary, something like that – had leaned over and was looking concerned. "Are you well? Shall I have a servant fetch some wine?"

Guinevere shook her head mutely, her lips pressed together. Really all she wanted was a good cry into Morgana's understanding arms. "Thank you, but I am fine," she managed. "The excitement of the day, it is simply tiring me, that is all."

The lady smiled and took the liberty of touching her hand. "I will inform the servants to prepare your chambers once the tourney is over, Majesty. You will feel perfectly fine after a good rest, I am certain."

"Yes, that will do nicely." Guinevere turned her face back to the field, but her thoughts remained miles away.

Oh, Lancelot.

She bit her lip, cursing herself. She should have told Morgana – Morgana would have known what to do. Why did she have to be a maid? She was so helpful, and Guinevere could never bring her anywhere when she was needed.

She shook her head, trying to undeceive herself. Heavens, she had been impulsive… what had she been thinking?

He had been so perfect; sweet, funny, charming, gentle. Lancelot – _Sir_ Lancelot. He might have mentioned that little addendum, perhaps? Before she had a chance to become interested in him, maybe?

But was it really her fault? She tried to rationalize. She had never asked for this arranged marriage, never been remotely concerned with the King of Camelot. She had been perfectly clear with her father, that she went only out of duty to her country, and that she had conceded only after arguing with him for the better part of a month.

How could she be expected to control her heart? She had turned down her fair share of suitors over the years, and her father had always understood her reasons before – too arrogant, too foolish, too shiftless, too cruel, etc.

But Arthur Pendragon was too good an offer to be turned down. Carmelide needed the political alliance; Camelot was growing rapidly in power, and her father was no fool. It was always best to be friends with those in control, and the King of Carmelide had no intention of coming out on the wrong side of the future, even at the risk of alienating his only daughter.

But what had Guinevere's excuse been with the King of Camelot? Why had she resisted the union so strongly?

Unfortunately, before Guinevere had the chance to remember, the first pass had begun. The king and the knight faced each other from opposite ends of the divide and began to canter towards each other, hurrying forward, forward.

Guinevere's heart had ceased to function properly, and was beating outrageously in her throat. How could she watch this? Her unwanted husband and the man she'd thought she could have loved? Oh merciful Gods!

She closed her eyes as the horses' hooves pounded against the earth, drawing the two men that much closer to each other. No matter who won, who lost, Guinevere was trapped – she couldn't bear to watch.


	14. Chapter 14

WiltingDaisies94: There was a request for some more Merlin time (I don't blame you, I love him too), so from the Philosophical Corner, more advice from the one and only, brilliant and highly under-appreciated Merlin!

Next chapter will be ArMor!

Recap: Queen Guinevere had a nasty shock last chapter as she figured out who her beau really was - her husband's favorite knight. But Lancelot, who is still _way_ in the dark about who this "Lady Morgana" is, has no idea he's been discovered...

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><p><span>Chapter 14<span>

"I do not understand." Lancelot stared at the playing cards in his hand, his gaze passing right through them. "She did not come."

Merlin furrowed his brows and drew a card from the deck, trying to concentrate on the game. "Oh?"

"It seems impossible." Lancelot shook his head, sounding miserable, rejected. "She must have seen me lose at the tourney."

"What?" Merlin drummed his fingers along the tabletop, hoping to avoid this conversation.

Lancelot ran a hand through his hair. "She must have been in the crowd. Idiot!" he berated himself. "I should have fought harder!"

Merlin shot his friend a skeptical look. "What perfect nonsense," he said dryly. "It was the king's wedding tourney – you know he would have eviscerated you had you beaten him."

"I can just imagine." Lancelot was beyond listening to Merlin's logic. "She must have been there, watching me." He groaned and hung his head. "How the lady must have scorned my loss!"

Merlin reached across the table and smacked Lancelot across the back of the head.

"Ow!" The knight's eyes widened and he snapped out of his morose mood. "Thanks," he muttered reluctantly, shaking his head.

"Certainly." Merlin sat back. "Pick a card, Lancelot, it is your turn."

The knight added the top card of the deck to his hand absentmindedly. "Why would she not have come, Merlin? There was a connection between us, it was real, it was there, we both felt it."

"Perhaps she was unwell, Lancelot." Merlin postulated halfheartedly. "Have you considered that possibility?"

"Ill?" The knight's voice sparked with a pathetic hope. "Yes, I suppose that could account for it!"

Merlin rolled his eyes. He'd been fruitlessly trying to focus on the card game. He always lost to Lancelot, but even with the knight distracted somehow he was still unable to win.

"What shall I do?" Lancelot pondered. "I had not thought any further ahead than tonight. How shall I know when she is no longer ill?"

Merlin sighed. "You did give the lady a place to meet, yes?"

"Certainly." Lancelot put his cards down, his good mood slowly returning. "Three knaves. Can you match?"

Merlin pursed his lips and stared at his hand reluctantly. "Two queens," he said, dropping the ladies onto the tabletop. "Match?"

"Yes, and twice over too." Lancelot flipped two kings out of his hand and held them out for Merlin to see. "Two Arthurs."

Merlin hung his head ruefully. "I concede. How do you always manage that trick? Every time… it is impossible to have such luck as you possess." He began to collect and compile the deck.

Lancelot shrugged. "It would seem not of late. I have lost the tourney and Milady is ill. Luck indeed."

Merlin decided not to remind the knight that it was only speculation that the lady was unwell; he quietly shuffled the cards.

"I will wait for her." Lancelot crossed his arms, determined. "We agreed upon a place to meet. I will be there every evening until Milady arrives; she will know that I have continued in pursuit of her."

Merlin shook his head fondly. "You are mad, my friend. Utterly mad."

Lancelot looked appraisingly at the servant. "Merlin, I understand your disbelief, but it is as I said. I feel it so acutely in my center. Have you ever known when you looked at someone that they were precisely what you wanted?"

"Of course. What man has not?"

"Then you understand what I insist on!"

Merlin began to deal out the cards. "And how many a man has been tricked by what he thinks he desires?" he replied calmly.

Lancelot picked up his hand and glanced over his cards, exasperated. "Why must you be such a cynic?"

Merlin raised his eyebrows, coolly surveying his friend. "Do you know about Princess Sophia?" he asked.

Lancelot shook his head. "I do not believe so. Was that Arthur's cousin?"

Merlin chuckled. "No." He put two cards down and drew three from the deck. "She came before you arrived in Camelot."

Lancelot frowned and shifted in his seat. "Who was she, then?"

"The Princess Sophia," Merlin explained, "was a beautiful girl Arthur saved in the woods one day. She and her father were attacked by a group of highwaymen, and Arthur, being the heroic prat he is, interfered to save them."

"And?" Lancelot dropped two cards and picked one.

"King Uther, may his soul rest in peace, invited the Princess and her father to stay on at the palace." Merlin tapped his cards agitatedly. "To this day I have never seen Arthur so smitten with a girl before. He began to shirk his training, avoid his duties, anything to spend time with lovely, charming Sophia."

Lancelot laughed. "Truly?" He grinned. "Strange. I can hardly conjure the image of His Majesty so enchanted by a woman."

"Enchanted?" Merlin smiled loftily, plucking a card off the top of the deck. "An excellent choice of words."

Lancelot raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"You see," Merlin said, "I was certain something bizarre was happening with Arthur. I had never seen him in such wonderment over a woman, so I did some investigating. And would you like to know what I discovered?"

"That he was passionately in love with her but Sophia she was already spoken for?" Lancelot suggested jokingly. "Two queens." He put the cards down with a stylish flourish. "Match?"

"Damn it!" Merlin tossed his hand down in frustration. "How do you do that?"

Lancelot grinned wolfishly. "Faith, Merlin. You might consider adopting some."

"Allow me to finish my story, will you? Then you might understand why I lack 'faith', as you call it." Merlin folded his arms across his chest. "Anyway, I discovered Sophia's unfortunate little secret."

"Secret?" Lancelot began to gather the cards. "What secret?"

"Oh, it was nothing important." Merlin leaned his elbows on the table. "Only that she was a magical creature intent on sacrificing Arthur's soul to her evil gods so she could return to her natural, demonic form."

Lancelot's eyes widened and he twitched involuntarily. "I beg your pardon?"

Merlin grinned, enjoying his friend's shocked expression. "Correct, sir. The girl Arthur had fallen madly in love with, suddenly and without logical reason, was trying to kill him."

Lancelot shook his head in skeptical disbelief. "No. Absolutely not."

Merlin bit his bottom lip and nodded, tilting his head. "Absolutely yes. So," he said, "perhaps you should think twice, friend. Twice, slowly, and with every possible outcome in mind."

Lancelot held up his hands. "Very well, I take your point, I do. But I am much less politically important than His Majesty; you know it to be true." He shuffled the cards, putting them together. "She was different. She was perfect."

Merlin held his chin in his hand. "Let me meet her."

Lancelot frowned. "What?"

Merlin shrugged. "If you are so certain about it, introduce me to the lady."

The knight laughed. "Ha! Would that I were able to do so, friend, but as I can hardly meet her myself, I imagine that would be quite impossible." He shook his head. "No. You must trust me to know my own heart, Merlin."

The servant raised his eyebrows. "Know what you do, Lancelot. Do not make Arthur's mistake."

"Silly boy," the knight chirped. "Of course I would not. I pride myself on always making my own mistakes."

Merlin chuckled darkly. "Cheers to that, friend."

"Cheers." Lancelot dipped his head and began to deal the cards.


	15. Chapter 15

WiltingDaisies94: All the way to chapter 15 and more to come. Thank you all so much for your support with this story, your interest and reviews, with a special thanks to **Selenaria** who reviews ever chapter without fail. May all fanfiction readers learn from that trait!

Time for ArMor again, I know I've been lacking with them for the last few chapters, but no worries, they are back. Arthur is still Leon, Morgana is still Juliana.

Enjoy! XD

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><p><span>Chapter 15<span>

Morgana slipped the hood of her cloak over her head, pausing to gather her courage. She'd been arguing with herself for hours, trying to decide what to do; she must have paced the length of the Queen's chambers several dozen times before she finally came to a conclusion.

She would go. She would meet him and tell the truth. After all, what was the worst that could happen? She hadn't promised him anything she could not retract. She hadn't done anything wrong per say (except pretending to be a noblewoman, but even that was at her mistress's request).

Morgana nodded to herself. She would be honest with Leon, and take whatever anger he dealt out. After all, how bad could it be?

Oh Gods.

She closed her eyes. Who was she trying to fool? He was going to be furious; she had lied, if not directly, then certainly by omission. She had led him on and let him believe that she was his social equal; he had trusted her.

Well, she admonished herself, it was her bed to lie in. Pushing against the fearful voice in her head that begged her not to go, she steadied herself. She had to be certain, or she'd never be able to go through with this.

Closing the door behind her was almost impossible, but somehow she picked up her skirts and pulled it shut. She'd borrowed another of her mistress's gowns, this one a silken peach creation. Thankfully the Queen had been out for the day (ironically, visiting a dressmaker), and Morgana knew the missing gown would go unnoticed.

Still, she waited until darkness had covered the castle and only the torchlight could watch her shameful performance. She felt like a common criminal, sneaking around the palace, unsure if she was trying harder not to get caught or not to get lost.

She rounded the first corner, touching her mask self-consciously. He was so charming, though, another voice, a new and somewhat shameless little nuisance, thought with regret. Funny, sweet, handsome…

No. Morgana shook her head. She couldn't do this; she had to tell the truth. It was going to stab at her heart, but it was better to do so now than to wait. Morgana didn't like to admit it, even to herself, but she knew her own heart. And she stood a good chance of falling in love with Leon if she continued meeting him.

She descended a long flight of stairs that wound down the side of the palace. Being a servant did have some advantages; although Morgana was terrible at navigating the main hallways, several maids had already shown her the unused passages that allowed the palace staff to maintain a high degree of invisibility.

Morgana moved across the stone floor that ended the stairwell, her footsteps echoing quietly, and pulled open the short, wooden door leading into the gardens.

The night air wafted over her gently, a mother running a hand through her child's hair. It was a new moon that evening, and the sky was perfectly clear, scattered with stars. The door swung shut behind her, almost silently.

It was time. Morgana maneuvered her way around some waist high shrubbery and passed through a row of rose bushes. Be prepared, she told herself. Remember what it is you came here to say.

She sighed.

No self righteous defense, she admonished herself. You have earned whatever anger he doles out. You are the one who lied, Morgana.

"Good evening."

Morgana turned around. Her internal monologue had taken her farther into the garden than she had realized, and she almost jumped at Arthur's voice.

"Lord Leon." Morgana dropped a quick curtsy; as she rose she noted that he was also wearing his mask.

Arthur grinned mischievously. "I apologize, Lady Juliana. I did not mean to frighten you."

Morgana tilted her head to the side. "That smile on your face would suggest otherwise," she teased back. Immediately she felt the urge to cover her mouth; she was supposed to be stopping this.

"How can you accuse me of being so utterly ungallant?" Arthur put a hand on his chest, pretending great offense.

Morgana raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, giving him a very pointed look.

"Very well," Arthur conceded, holding out his arm for her to take. "I apologize."

Morgana took the outstretched arm with an eye-roll. "Next time you might attempt a tone of contrition, Milord. I hear that has a convincing affect when one is apologizing."

Arthur laughed. "You must teach me, Milady."

The words slipped out before Morgana could stop them: "Now _there_ is an endeavor that could hardly take less than a lifetime."

He gave her a brilliant smile, his eyes speaking tomes.

Morgana looked to the side, infinitely glad she was wearing a mask. No, no, no! Why was this happening? Who was this lady standing in her body, flirting with the handsome nobleman?

"Lady Juliana?" Arthur's voice reached her ears.

"Yes?" She turned back to him, almost disgusted at how eager her tone was.

Arthur pulled his left hand out from behind his back and held out a red rose to Morgana. "For you, Milady," he offered courteously.

Morgana blushed and took the flower. "Thank you, Milord. It is lovely."

He shrugged sheepishly. "Not long ago I met a young lady who taught me a bit of appreciation for the complex beauty of blossoms." He grinned. "She was quite a wise woman."

"Really?" Morgana asked slowly. "And what would she say to you about this particular flower?"

"Well," Arthur replied, "it is a wild rose, generally found in shades of carmine and magenta…" He smiled charmingly. "Rather like the color of Milady's lips."

Morgana smiled back.

"The roses tend to grow clustered in small groups, with pointed leaves on each stalk." He walked with Morgana over to a stone bench, and the two sat together. "Unsurprisingly, the rose flourishes best in full sunlight."

Morgana looked at him, pleasantly surprised and flattered. "I am impressed, Milord. It seems someone has done their learning quite thoroughly."

Arthur angled himself to face her. "What can I say, Milady?" he asked airily. "Some topics are simply too fascinating to be ignored."

Morgana felt a twist of guilt in her gut. "Milord," she murmured, her teasing receding, "there is something I should tell you."

Arthur put a hand under her chin. "Yes?" he asked softly, leaning toward her.

He was too close, and Morgana was struggling to remember what it was she needed to say. She had to admit the truth… that she wasn't a noble… that she was just a servant… that was it… right?

Yes.

The truth, she had to tell the truth.

But she couldn't. Not with him looking at her like that. Even from behind his mask, his blue eyes sparkled happily. His whole face was eager, alight, charmed, and it was all because of her.

"I…"

But the truth! It had to be spoken. It would be heartless of her to let this good man believe in something, someone who was as insubstantial as air. Morgana hardly knew the woman who seemed to steal her body when she was playing the noble part.

"I…"

Gone was the servant girl, the Queen's protective maid and childhood companion. There was no place here for the reasonable woman who kept everyone's life in order. For the first time Morgana felt like… like…

Like her own person.

Like a woman.

Like someone deserving.

In that moment she made a decision.

"I should tell you," Morgana said slowly, looking up at Arthur through her eyelashes, "that the rose is also extremely durable. For all its delicate appearance, the flower is capable of living through great periods of frigid cold."

"Mhm." Arthur nodded, his eyes flickering unbidden to Morgana's lips. "Amazing."

He was coming closer and closer.

Much too close.

"Is it not?" she whispered in return, tilting her head and leaning up to meet him.

The last thing Morgana recalled clearly was her eyes drifting shut and the soft touch of the lord's lips brushing against her own.


	16. Chapter 16

WiltingDaisies94: Okay folks. Charging onwards from the lovely ArMorness of last chapter, we are going to spend some time with Gwen and Arthur, our awkward newlyweds.

The two are king and queen now, but all is not so easy and pleasant from the royal point of view, what the communication lines being rather blurry. Arthur has a secret, Gwen has a problem, and Lancelot (yes, he's in this chapter also), is blissfully in the dark about it all. Includes a splash of Gwaine!

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><p><span>Chapter 16<span>

"Come along, Kit." Guinevere clucked her tongue at her horse, urging her to speed her pace. She received a very poor response; if anything, Kit slowed down.

Arthur dug his heels into his stallion's sides, moving his horse parallel to his wife's. "Kit?" he asked lightly, trying to make conversation. "No doubt short for Katherine."

Guinevere shook her head. "No," she replied shortly. "Not Katherine. Just Kit."

Arthur closed his mouth and inclined his head awkwardly, shot down once more. "Of course, Milady."

Guinevere felt guilty for causing the discomfort in the air, but her mind was unable to focus. It was all she could do to keep herself facing forwards in her saddle, rather than glancing over her shoulder every few moments.

And this was because behind her, at the front of the King's retinue, was the man she'd been unable to bring herself to meet. Sir Lancelot DuLac, favored knight of Camelot, warrior and nobleman – that was he, and he was there.

"My father presented Kit to me a few months ago," Guinevere elaborated for her husband, trying to take her mind off the sound of the knights behind her. "Though sometimes I think I might better have given her to my maid; Kit adores Morgana, they greet each other like old friends."

Arthur nodded amiably, but said nothing.

"As for the name…" Guinevere shrugged. "When I was a child I used to hear the stable boys calling to the horses. They would click their tongues and it always sounded as if they were saying 'kit, kit'." She tried to imitate the style. "And so Kit received her name."

"I see. How charming." Arthur tried to think of something to say to continue the conversation, but his attention was just as preoccupied as Guinevere's. He'd been attempting to chat nicely with the Queen ever since they'd ridden out from Camelot, but not very successfully.

Arthur had been unconsciously avoiding Guinevere ever since their wedding night, an unintentional, but surprisingly easy endeavor. Ever since her coronation, Guinevere had been occupied with moving her possessions into the palace, collecting gifts and meeting with from her new courtiers, and generally learning her way about the castle. She'd had little free time for Arthur to seek her out.

Arthur clutched his reigns more tightly. It had been a disappointing wedding night, that much was certain. Guinevere's embrace had been willing, and not unpleasant, but a part of his wife had been elsewhere, it seemed. Guinevere was attractive in a sweet way, but nothing in her touch had seemed interested in Arthur.

He had tried, truly he had, to be gentle and considerate. But as Arthur had looked down at his bride, her exotic dark skin had changed into a marble white. Arthur knew he was not so obsessed with the Lady Juliana as to be immune to the attraction of a female body, and he could not deny some degree of pleasure at performing his 'duty' with his new wife. But the fickle moonlight streaming into the darkened room (for the candles had gone out by then) had slowly but surely tricked him.

"So," he asked, trying to push past the awkward memory and pick up on a new topic, "how have you found the merchants of Camelot? Does their work please you?"

"Hm?" Guinevere, who had been focusing on subtly sneaking a look over her shoulder, whipped her head around. "I am sorry, Milord, what was that?"

"I asked," Arthur repeated, "if the merchants of Camelot have succeeded in meeting your expectations."

"Oh, indeed," Guinevere replied honestly. "They have been most helpful, and the seamstresses of the village are quite astute at their craft." She smiled charmingly. "I like your people very much, Majesty."

Arthur nodded approvingly. "I am heartened to hear that, Milady." He subtly kicked the side of his stallion, and the horse moved closer to Guinevere's mare. "And forget not, they are _your_ people now, as well."

"I consider it an honor. Oh Kit, would you cease!" Guinevere tugged impatiently on the reigns, and her horse nickered, bucking her head away from Arthur's stallion. "Wretchedly independent thing you are. Behave, Kit."

"Oh." Arthur laughed lightly, hiding his disappointment and moving his stallion back into line. Well, that had failed spectacularly. "Will you pardon me for a moment Milady? I should speak to the guards."

"Certainly, Milord." Guinevere nodded deeply, and watched Arthur turn his horse around. She shuddered a bit, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders and turning her head against the sharp morning air.

Arthur nudged his stallion in the side and trotted over to the front line of his guard, where some of his favorite knights were waiting dutifully. "Gwaine," he called, approaching the cluster, "I would like to speak with Lancelot; would you kindly entertain Her Majesty for a few moments?"

The handsome knight grinned roguishly. "With pleasure, Your Majesty." His eyes twinkled mischievously and he snapped his reigns, breaking rank to join the Queen.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Politely, Gwaine," he warned over his shoulder at the knight's retreating back.

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "Leave be, Majesty," he advised reassuringly. "Gwaine will behave himself or I will personally take him to task." Lancelot smiled. "Though for Her Majesty's sake I would certainly hope she has a sense of humor."

Arthur glanced back at the Queen, who seemed to be chatting cordially with a very friendly Gwaine. "Tell me, Lancelot," he said, turning his head back to his friend, "what do you think of Her Majesty?"

Lancelot tilted his head, unsure of what to say or the intent behind the question. "I beg pardon, Sire?"

"Queen Guinevere." Arthur repositioned his horse and waved on the rest of the company. "My wife," he specified, hanging back as the Queen and Gwaine took to leading the party; Arthur allowed the entire retinue of guards to pass by before he continued. "What do you think of her?"

Lancelot chuckled thoughtfully. "I feel disadvantaged in answering your question, Majesty. I know very little of your bride." He considered Guinevere from a distance. "Your Majesty certainly has a very beautiful Queen," he said diplomatically.

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek and watched Guinevere as she spoke with Gwaine, who was in the midst of telling her something radically farfetched. He considered her calm demeanor, her amused and skeptical expression, and the gentle stroke of her palm against her horse's neck. "Yes, I suppose she is," he murmured half to Lancelot, half for his own benefit. "She seems a worthy woman."

The knight regarded him curiously. "Is something wrong, Your Majesty?" Lancelot asked. "May I be of service?"

"No," the King mused. "I suppose not. Only this would I ask of you, Lancelot," he stipulated. "Keep a steady eye on Her Majesty." He cleared his throat. "Be certain that she is well attended… and…" he paused. "See her made happy, would you?"

"Certainly, Milord." Lancelot bowed his head. "I will ensure that it is done."

"Good." The King held out his hand. "Many thanks, friend."

"Of course, Majesty." Lancelot grasped Arthur's forearm, and together they urged their mounts to catch up with the rest of the troupe.


	17. Chapter 17

WiltingDaisies94: Hey guys, seems like there was some confusion over the last chapter, so I am going to try and clarify a bit.

1. As I said earlier, if two characters haven't had a scene together, that means they haven't met yet. In Morgana and Arthur's case this is reasonable, considering she is Gwen's maid, not a lady-in-waiting. Unlike Merlin with Arthur, it's improper etiquette for Morgana to go places with Gwen (her status is too low). Besides, Arthur is a King - he's a bit busy to pay attention to servants.

2. Someone seemed to think that Arthur and Morgana just disappeared after last chapter. They haven't gone anywhere; they just wanted a good snog, and I figured they deserved some privacy :P

3. It's going to be a while before anyone removes a mask - love doesn't happen quite that fast, even in fanfiction land. Arthur/Morgana and Gwen/Lancelot are going to spend some time getting to know each other before anything drastic happens. For now, all I'll tell you about unmasking/reveals, is the first one happens in chapter 30 (but don't worry, there's lots of good stuff in between!).

I think that covers everything. Any other questions, feel free to ask. This chapter we're going to see the characters we didn't have last chapter: Morgana, Merlin, and a sweet little OC I cooked up for the occasion.

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><p><span>Chapter 17<span>

"It was Rosalind last night, and Meryl the night before, and Anne four days ago." Lily shook her head disapprovingly, shelling the enormous bowl of peas in front of her with an almost vicious intensity. "I can hardly believe a knight of Camelot could be so… so…" she huffed impatiently, "_awful_."

Morgana half listened, sitting quietly while the scullery maid ranted. Lily was an unusual character; she'd taken to guiding Morgana through her transition to Camelot, and the maid was grateful for her help. She liked Lily; the other maid was friendly by nature, and unlike Morgana, never hesitated to speak her thoughts.

"Morgana? Are you even paying attention?"

"Hm?" Morgana looked up, her chin in her hand. "I am sorry Lily, what was that?"

The other maid rolled her eyes and plopped down onto a stool. "Never you mind, Morgana. I see that expression."

"What expression?" Morgana, now fully attentive, asked.

Lily gave her a pointed look. "That dreamy, preoccupied face that clearly tells me you are imagining something much better than chores and my complaints." She crossed her legs and grabbed the next peapod. "So it is no good trying to hide the truth. Tell me who he is."

"He?" Morgana's mouth opened a bit and she flicked a pea at the other maid. "What 'he' would that be?"

Lily pursed her lips. "Do not attempt a coy routine with me, Miss Morgana, I can see right through that wide-eyed innocence."

Morgana raised her eyebrows. "I wish you would listen to yourself for a half a moment, Lily. I am hardly the one spending my time considering the grave misconduct of Sir Gwaine, am I?"

The scullery maid narrowed her eyes, but didn't reply.

Morgana chuckled and put a hand on her friend's arm. "Believe me, there is no man to be spoken of."

"Truly?" Lily frowned. "Damn. That does put a damper on things. A bit of romance always makes up for a lack of interesting activity." She shifted in her seat. "One would think that with all the excitement from the wedding…" she shook her head. "But no such luck, I suppose."

Morgana rolled her eyes. "Nevertheless, I would hardly have time for my own amusements. Some of us have work to do and, shockingly enough, we take it seriously."

"Well are we not high and mighty, Miss Morgana?" Lily teased, making a face. "Not all of us can be Her Majesty's personal maid."

Morgana stuck out her tongue. "Just for that I will be taking my lunch in my own chamber, I think. Though I am certain you will hardly miss my company, and it will surely give you more time to gripe jealously about Sir Gwaine's latest conquest."

Lily's mouth dropped open. "Jealous? Me? Of that oaf and his harlots?" She scoffed. "Ridiculous."

"Mhm." Morgana stood and picked up the tray she'd prepared. "Of course not. How could I possibly suspect such a thing?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "Oh would you get out of my kitchen?"

Morgana grinned like a fiend. "Yes, Mistress. Whatever you say." She put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "I will see you later, yes?"

"Of course." Lily touched Morgana's hand and then gave it a light slap. "Now go, eat. Her Majesty will be back later tonight and I am certain she will require your presence upon return."

Morgana smiled and ducked her head. "Until then." She put her second hand under the tray and turned around.

"And try to pay attention!" Lily called after her retreating back. "Your feet are just as important as your daydreams!"

Morgana rolled her eyes, not bothering to look over her shoulder, although she knew Lily had a small point. She had been a bit preoccupied lately – though it didn't mean she'd become totally incapable of looking after herself.

It was all the complicated nonsense with Leon, it had to be. The memory of his lips was still fresh in her mind, and like a child first given honey she could not help but consider when she might taste again.

They had agreed on another meeting; Morgana had utterly lost the battle against her sense of vice. Whoever she was around Leon, this fictional Lady Juliana, she had taken on her own traits, and with them willpower.

And Morgana was beginning not to bother herself about it. It was so perfect to be someone else, to don the noble disguise and steal a few precious hours in a world of fantasy. Even when the guilt came crashing over her head, a small part of her still cheered, knowing how happy she had been for that fleeting, unreal instant.

Was that wrong? she wondered, walking down a heavily sloped corridor. Was she not supposed to be happy?

No, Morgana rationalized. It was not wrong to seek joy.

But, her waning conscience argued back, can happiness be achieved through falsehood? Never forget that all this is illusion, easily shattered by the merest hint of truth. Your reality is incompatible with his!

But it was so tempting to forget that. Morgana fought with herself, turning a corner sharply. And after all –

"Ahh!"

Morgana crashed head on into someone rounding the corner. The tray she carried was knocked out of her hands and fell to the ground. Food spilled across the floor and pieces of broken pottery flew everywhere.

Morgana herself fell backwards, landing heavily on the stone floor. "Ouch," she hissed, rubbing her bruised tailbone. She lifted herself shakily on her arms, pausing to recover.

"I am so sorry!" The man she'd run into was rubbing the shoulder he'd landed on. "I should not have been moving so quickly, I never think to look around that dastardly corner, it sneaks up on me every time – I did not mean to hit you, I sometimes, I forget to watch my feet – and I have ruined your meal, here let me help you –"

"Please!" Morgana interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the babbling man. "It is perfectly fine, I was paying no more attention than you were; it was equally my fault." She evaluated the tall, dark-haired man. "Are you hurt?"

The man stood up and rolled his shoulder back, looking uncomfortable as he heard it crack. "No, I think not. Here," he bent over and held out a hand to her. "Allow me to help you."

Morgana grasped his hand, and let him help lift her to her feet. "Thank you," she said, regaining her balance. She looked regretfully down at the ruined food splattered across the floor. "I suppose I should clean that," she said, biting her lip.

"Let me," the man said. "It seems the least I can do to atone for causing such a mess with my dreadful clumsiness." He smiled ruefully and held out his hand. "I am Merlin, by the way."

The maid nodded her head. "Morgana," she replied, taking it. "A pleasure to meet you, Merlin."


	18. Chapter 18

WiltingDaiseis94: Welcome back for chapter 18, all of my beloved readers. As ever, thank you for your reviews/alerts/favorites and support; I appreciate it enormously. ArMor and Gwen/Lancelot are such tiny, underrated ships, and part of me wishes I could put this story under both pairings. I recently read some news on season 5, and sad to say, it's not looking so hot for us ArMor shippers. :(

But that's why we're here, I suppose. So, last chapter you all met Lily, and Merlin met Morgana (they won't have any major interactions, unfortunately, but it is nonetheless an important plot point for the two of them to have met; don't forget it).

This chapter revolves around Gwen, Lancelot, and Morgana; Arthur again next chapter. _Italics_ indicate flashback. Enjoy!

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><p><span>Chapter 18<span>

"Did you enjoy your ride, Mistress?" Morgana carefully unhooked the back of Guinevere's riding habit. "It has been a while since you have taken Kit out; she must have appreciated the excursion."

The Queen smiled faintly. "Yes, I believe the air served her well." She lifted her arms. "Though His Majesty's stallion seemed to thoroughly irritate her."

Morgana laughed. "Well, Kit is a very attractive mare, Milady. You can hardly blame the poor horse for trying."

Guinevere tossed her head, wriggling out of her constricting apparel. "I tell you, Morgana," she said firmly, "I would not have had a man who approached me as such either. All that preening and unearned confidence… such bizarre creatures horses can be."

"Arms down," Morgana instructed, repositioning her mistress. "And some might choose to look at it as a sign of strength, Milady. If the stallion does not try to prove his worth to Kit, how will she ever know what he has to offer?"

Guinevere rolled her eyes. "They are only horses, Morgana. Shall we not be completely carried away by fancy?"

"Of course, Milady." Morgana tugged gently, and the upper corset came loose. The Queen wriggled out of the rest of her outfit, leaving her in her much more comfortable shift. "There you are, all settled. Shall I heat a bath for you?"

"Yes, thank you." Guinevere nodded, and seated herself in a large, cushy armchair, tucking her legs beneath her.

Morgana curtsied to her mistress. "I will hardly be a moment, Milady." She eyed the Queen with consideration. "Make certain you keep warm, yes?"

"Oh go on, Morgana." Guinevere waved her hand, dismissing her maid. "And hurry, would you?"

"Yes, Milady." Morgana left.

Guinevere crossed her arms, looking discontentedly into the fireplace. Although she was a bit sore from riding over the uneven terrain, what she really needed was time to think.

Spending the day with her new husband had not proved as productive as she had hoped. It wasn't the King's fault; Guinevere knew he had been trying his best to hold her attention. But having Lancelot only that small ways away had been entirely distracting, and listening to the King had not been possible.

Guinevere sighed. Well, at least she had not attended their set meeting. She still maintained that last shred of dignity, albeit one born of indignation. From now on she would only meet him as one of the King's knights.

There would be no more flirtation. Never again would she listen to the perfectly smooth sound of his singing, songs of love and misery pouring forth from what seemed to be the very depths of his soul. No more watching the twinkle of his eye or the way he threw back his head when he laughed. No…

She'd watched him speak with her husband out of the corner of her eye. It wasn't that Gwaine hadn't been attempting to amuse her; she actually thought he was rather entertaining, what with his easy chatter.

_"Lancelot is a good man," Gwaine said, smiling brilliantly. "I have never seen another person so excellent at wielding a long staff. I mean, yes, he is a fair jouster and a wonderful swordsman, but truthfully…" he shook his head good-naturedly. "You absolutely must see him with a staff. I am certain he would be happy to oblige. Well," he shrugged, "provided His Majesty could tear him away from his instruments."_

_ Oh, Guinevere knew that. "Really?" she asked, trying not to react too quickly. "He is fond of music?"_

_ Gwaine laughed. "Fond would be understating, Majesty. There is a sort of... magic in it for him." He checked his reigns. "Our Lancelot is the most earnest, hopeful man in all the kingdoms across this land, I would wager." _

_ "Oh?" Guinevere wanted to be disinterested, but the more Gwaine told her, the more she found she needed to know._

_ "Indeed. The man can be painfully honest; sometimes one wonders if he has ever told a lie to anyone."_

Guinevere cringed, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Even now, feeling vulnerable as a leaf shaken by an autumn gust, she could not fault him for lying. He'd obviously assumed when he'd said "Lancelot" that she would know exactly who he was.

And it made sense. Any woman from Camelot (had she told him she was from the city? she tried to recall) would immediately recognize precisely who was standing in front of her: Sir Lancelot DuLac, favored knight of the King.

But of course Guinevere, a Princess of Carmelide, had hardly had the chance to memorize the names and faces of her betrothed's many knights. When she met him at the masque, "Lancelot" might have been any man in all the world.

And trusting her rotten luck, he happened to be perfectly untouchable.

So she hadn't gone. She had let their meeting pass by, successfully ignoring the pressing, hollow feeling inside her stomach. Every fiber of her had been quivering to be released, to unleash her hurt, her anger, her everything on the unsuspecting knight.

But she had not. She had remained in her chambers, and thankfully the King had not requested her presence that evening. Her mood had been entirely cloudy and grim, and any god of lovemaking would have torn its hair and gnashed its teeth at the pitiful display it would have received.

The heavy necklace Guinevere was wearing was beginning to weigh constrictively on her neck, and she reached up to wrestle with the clasp. The diamond centerpiece seemed to grow larger by the moment, and Guinevere clawed at the frustrating closure. Finally, she heard a faint click, and the tension in her neck relaxed.

Twisting her neck, Guinevere placed the ornament down on a small table beside her chair. Feeling a bit lighter, she removed her earrings as well.

The left one came out easily, but when she reached for the right, she let out a groan: her earlobe was depressingly empty.

Guinevere cursed under her breath (queens did not swear aloud) and shook her head. Lord only knew where her jewelry could have gone. She'd been riding all day with the King and his men, up and down through hills and valleys. Her earring could have fallen out anywhere, at anytime.

A knock at the door echoed across the room. Guinevere looked up, startled by the unfamiliar _rat-tat-tat_ on the wood. That couldn't be Morgana…

She stood up and crossed the floor hesitantly. Guinevere frowned, acutely aware of the unease racing down her back; she pulled open the door.

It was Lancelot.

Smiling gently, eyes sparkling, one open hand extended. In the center of his palm sat a silver earring embedded with sapphire flecks.

The knight bowed smoothly.

"Your Majesty."


	19. Chapter 19

WiltingDaisies94: Okay, so you've all had eighteen chapters to get comfortable (or in some cases, uncomfortable) with what's going on here: there's Arthur/Morgana love flying around, Gwen's heartbreaking Lancelot disillusionment, awkward Gwen/Arthur interactions that you wish you could look away from, Merlin trying to keep everyone sane (as always), Gwaine presence and Morgana's new friend, Lily.

And now that you know what's going on, time for me to shake it all up. This story is foremost a romance, and one of our primary couples needs fixing before the other can be broken (it's tragic too, everyone can't always be happy). And here's how it's going to work...

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><p><span>Chapter 19<span>

"According to the messenger, the creature has stationed itself here," Sir Lancelot reported, pointing at the map. "It hunts by night, and has been terrorizing the nearby village; during the day it fortifies itself in this butte-like structure over here."

Arthur was pensive, staring at the map, brow furrowed in concentration. "Very well. I will take a troupe of fifty knights out. On which side of the structure does the cave open?"

"From the east. There is an open mouth, here." Lancelot moved around the table, his arms folded.

Arthur nodded. "Then I will send half the knights around the western side. If we can gain the upper position, we stand a better chance of defeating the monster." His finger moved across the map's thin surface, tracing a river. "Does the creature have any special features we should be prepared to combat?"

Lancelot frowned. "It was described as approximately the size of a mountain goat and swifter than a horse, possessing a dark coat of fur that cloaks it well in the shadows. Its claws end with sharp talons, and it bears a twisted horn atop its brow." He shook his head grimly. "The villagers describe its eyes as two black pits, hardly distinguishable from its face."

Arthur grimaced, though not at the description. "This is most inopportune timing," he murmured to himself. "Well, never mind." He shook off the notion. "I will speak to Leon, and set him the task of preparing the knights for travel."

"Your Majesty," Lancelot offered hastily, "There is no need to fetch Leon, I can enact your command; allow me to –"

"No," Arthur refused, turning his head sharply. "You will not be riding out with us."

Lancelot's mouth opened in surprise. "I beg your pardon?" he stammered.

"You heard me rightly," the King replied, looking back at the map. "This journey is not for your undertaking."

"But… but…" Lancelot tried to protest, disbelief clogging his throat. "But Your Majesty, I have served you well, fought at your side time and time again… why would I not attend you in this task?"

"Because I demand it, Lancelot." Arthur's eyes were certain, but his tone had softened.

Lancelot crossed his arms defensively. "Your Highness, I do not understand. You know the strength of my loyalty, do you not?"

"Of course, Lancelot," the King said honestly, "You are my most trusted knight. And that is precisely why you must remain here."

The knight did not follow, and was not to be soothed by flattery. "I ask you to explain, Majesty."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, and, glancing around the room, though it was deserted, he moved closer to Lancelot. "As you know," he said quietly, "I am relatively recently married, and although the Queen is a bright woman, she is still new to Camelot and its routine. That is why I need you to stay behind for the time being."

"Sire?"

Arthur put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I require someone to look after the kingdom while I am gone; the sort of man I can trust unconditionally to look after the best interests of my people." He sighed. "I am no more immortal than the next man, king or otherwise. I have no delusions with regards to the matter."

Lancelot frowned. "Majesty, please –"

"No," Arthur cut him off. "Hear me through. You will remain in the castle, as overseer and regent until my return. And," he continued over Lancelot's protest, "if I die, you are to look after Her Majesty and Camelot."

Lancelot was silent.

"I need to know there is someone here to aid my subjects while I am away, and I give that task to you." Arthur looked intently at the knight. "You will do it, Lancelot. For the love of your king and country, so help you God, you shall."

"I…but…" Lancelot tried to argue, though it was difficult under Arthur's powerful gaze. "I… yes, Your Majesty." He bowed his head, resigning himself with gritted teeth. "It would be my honor to safeguard Camelot in your absence."

The King smiled victoriously.

"Majesty?" Merlin poked his head through the door. "You sent for me?"

"Ah, Merlin, come in." Arthur waved a hand, gesturing his manservant into the room. "I have a job for you." He leaned on his palms against the table

Merlin sidled into the room, closing the door behind him. "How may I be of service?" he asked brightly.

"I need you to run a message to the Queen for me." Arthur was back musing over the map with Lancelot. "Tell Her Majesty that I will be departing Camelot for combat; Lancelot will act as her guardian while I am away."

Merlin's expression was quizzical. "Where are we off to, Majesty?"

"We?" Lancelot repeated discontentedly. "Merlin rides with you, yet you order me to remain? Majesty, I must object –"

Arthur rolled his eyes irritably. "You must do no such thing! The _only_ reason Merlin is coming along is because he is too thickheaded and stubborn to stay. I could throw him in the dungeons, keep him under lock and key – believe you me, I have tried more than once – but he would somehow manage to escape." He spared his servant a fond, reproving glance. "Disobeying my orders is Merlin's bizarre way of proving his loyalty."

Merlin ignored the criticism with an easy smile. "I take it you would rather not have charge of Camelot?"

The knight grunted his answer.

Merlin chuckled. "It is a compliment, my friend; there is no reason to be so dissatisfied. There will always be another monster, a larger battle, a greater glory to be won." He shrugged complacently, returning his attention to the King, who was plotting a route across the map with his fingers. "Sire?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up, having quite forgotten Merlin's question. "Oh yes. Our journey takes us to the eastern forests. A small village called Morswood is being thoroughly destroyed by some evil, bloodthirsty creature of the night." He paused, considering. "Phrase that differently when you speak with Her Majesty, would you?"

Merlin nodded. "Noted. Anything else you would like relayed?"

Lancelot, who was still a bit sour, put in sarcastically, "His undying devotion, of course."

Arthur glared at him for a minute, but said to Merlin, "Tell the Queen that I will only be gone a short while. There is no cause for worry, and I hope Camelot will suit her during my absence. And," he added, "send my best wishes for her health and happiness, of course."

"Yes, Sire." Merlin said. "Is that everything?"

Arthur coughed an affirmation. "Yes. You may go."

Merlin bowed. "As Your Majesty wishes."

Arthur went back to the map.

Lancelot just shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "Oh certainly, when it comes to running messages across the castle it is 'as Your Majesty wishes', but when there are dangerous, life-threatening conditions to be dealt with, _then_ he decides to defy you." He narrowed his eyes and watched as Merlin sauntered happily away.

Arthur smiled at Lancelot's irritated stance, but said nothing. They were good men, he thought. Both of them.


	20. Chapter 20

WiltingDaisies94: Chapter 20 already, and we just keep rolling along. I admit, it's sort of hard to gauge how quickly I should be updating.

I know this story is marked ArMor, and it is, I promise! The plot just happens to require me to handle Gwen and Lancelot first. Most of the 20s are G/L-centric and most of the 30s are ArMor-centric, it worked out that way. Please keep reading, the romance is good on both sides!

_Italics_ indicate flashback.

**Next chapter is ArMor!**

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><p><span>Chapter 20<span>

Guinevere swallowed, breathing raggedly. It was a gloomy day outside, but the grey sky was a surprising comfort to the young Queen. It felt somehow protective, as if promising that her actions were justifiable and it would keep her safe.

She shook her head, still trying to wrap her mind around this disaster. The King was gallivanting off to wage war against some wicked beast, and in his stead he was leaving Sir Lancelot, the last man alive Guinevere wished to encounter.

_"Yes, Your Majesty," the King's manservant, Merlin, said to her. "His Highness was very explicit in his orders. Sir Lancelot is an excellent knight and a gentleman; he will be certain to attend you as best suits your will." _

_ "Then I am to have an overseer?" Guinevere demanded, more tersely than she should have, but the thought of seeing Lancelot day in and day out was causing her heart to beat double time._

_ "No, Milady!" Merlin hastily reassured her, squirming a bit under the accusation. "The King merely wishes to offer you a guide. Coming to a new city and learning its ways …" he ducked his head, "he thinks only of your wellbeing, Majesty."_

Guinevere sighed deeply. The King's thought for her wellbeing was proving quite problematic. She could not spend several days with Lancelot as a companion! She would open her mouth and he would recognize her voice in an instant.

She'd been very fortunate the last time, when Lancelot had come to return her earring. Morgana had returned almost a moment later, with her bath all prepared, and the maid had spared her from answering to the knight. It had been sheer luck that had saved her, and Guinevere knew better than to trust consistently to chance.

She shuddered at the thought of Lancelot's discovery. If the knight heard her speak so much as a word, he would know she was "Lady Morgana". He would be furious that she had given him a false identity, that she had not revealed the vital information that she was a princess, and soon-to-be queen. Everything would come rushing out at once and gods, the condemnations that would fly!

And in return, Guinevere knew she would throw all her anger and indignation at Lancelot, blame him for feeding her recklessness.

No, she resolved, that could not happen. After Merlin's departure and a few moments of shaking internally, Guinevere had pulled herself together and begun formulating a plan. She truly hated being passive, and there was no way on earth Guinevere was going to let her horrible mistake come to light. She had put that past incident to rest, and she would be damned if her idiot husband dragged it all back up.

So there Guinevere was, hurrying through the palace corridors in the midst of a bleak, miserable day. In the hour or two it had taken her to fall asleep the night before, she had put together an idea on how to save herself. All she had to do now was follow through with it.

Steadying herself once more, Guinevere raised her hand and knocked rapidly on the door in front of her.

"Enter!" the voice within called, and Guinevere did so.

"Good afternoon," she greeted with a polite smile.

The old man in the room turned around in surprise, his white eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "Your Highness," he said in a raspy voice, bowing slowly on his creaky limbs, "to what do I owe this honor?"

Guinevere closed the door behind her. "You are Master Gaius, yes? The King's physician?" she asked carefully, innocently.

The old man inclined his head shortly. "Indeed, Majesty. How may I be of service to you?"

Guinevere's face softened; without knowing precisely why, she immediately liked Master Gaius. He had wisdom in his expression that spoke to her, and she was briefly reminded of her father's court philosopher, a brilliant but quiet man who Guinevere had always suspected of knowing more than he said.

"I am afraid I suffered an acute headache last night; I had some wretched difficulty falling asleep." She shrugged her shoulders delicately; all good lies held a hint of truth, she'd reasoned. "I was hoping you might have something to ease my slumber?"

Gaius listened and when she had finished, nodded. "Certainly, Your Majesty. Have you had any other discomforts? Nausea perhaps, or bouts of dizziness?"

Guinevere shook her head quickly. "No, none of that." She had some suspicion that the healer was wondering if she was pregnant, and it took her a minute to shake off her affront. "It is only my head," she repeated, perhaps a bit more guardedly than a moment before.

"Very well, then," Gaius said slowly. "Allow me a few moments and I will bring you a draft to take this evening." He cleared his throat and moved away, pulling open a small door to a backroom, through which he disappeared.

Guinevere waited patiently until the door swung shut behind the healer, and once it had, she moved swiftly into action. The main room was rather larger than she was hoping it would be, and filled with dozens of bottles and glasses holding all manner of plants and unguents. As quietly as she could, Guinevere began searching through the stock.

_"You see this, Milady?" Morgana, ten years of age, asked brightly. _

_ Guinevere, eight years at the time, looked eagerly. "What is it, Morgana?"_

_ "This," her playmate replied, "is a leaf that comes from a plant called dumbcane."_

_ "Dumbcane?" Guinevere wrinkled her nose and giggled. "What a foolish name!"_

_ Morgana shook her head emphatically. "Not at all, Milady, it is quite appropriate. You see," she explained, "if one chews the leaves or tastes the sap, it causes a swelling in the throat, striking one mute. Therefore it is called dumbcane, for it makes one dumb."_

_ "But why do you show me this?" Guinevere questioned, eager to return to their romp through the fallen autumn leaves._

_ "So you may recognize it, of course," Morgana replied, with all the sisterly good-nature of the world in her voice. "You must never let such a plant near your mouth, do you understand?"_

_ "Yes, yes," Guinevere said, brushing the order aside petulantly. "As you say, Morgana."_

Well, Guinevere thought as she moved aside jars containing various specimens she did not know the origin of, unfortunately I must disobey your command, Morgana. There was little she could say for herself, but that she was desperate.

Guinevere shifted through containers of nettle… birch wood… fennel seeds… no, none of that. Perhaps on the shelves below…?

Aha!

Guinevere breathed a sigh of relief as she reached for the jar. She tugged at the lid, which defied her momentarily before popping open. Eagerly unscrewing the cap, Guinevere plunged her hand into the jar, her eyes darting to the door the physician had disappeared through.

Her fingers closed around a waxy leaf, and she hastily removed it from the container, tucking it carefully into the silver sash around her waist. She could hear Gaius's footsteps returning, and with a speed she hardly knew she possessed, Guinevere replaced the lid and returned the jar to its rightful place.

"Here you are, Majesty." The healer reentered the front room, closing the door, and Guinevere quickly returned to the space she'd previously occupied as he did so. "This should do quite nicely in relieving your headaches."

Guinevere took the small bottle of liquid he offered. "Yes, I believe it shall." She smiled brightly. "Thank you so much, Master Gaius. I appreciate your help enormously."

The old healer bowed dutifully. "It is my pleasure, Majesty."

"A good day to you," Guinevere said cheerfully, and with a nod she strode confidently out the door.

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><p>WD94: Small note, yes, "dumbcane" does actually exist, it's science-y plant name is dieffenbachia, and it is a potentially lethal plant that causes muteness.<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

WiltingDaisies94: And now, a nice long slice of ArMor romance, because you've all earned it.

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><p><span>Chapter 21<span>

Arthur inhaled the fresh evening air like a man too long suffocated, welcoming the breeze as it washed over his face. The seasons were changing and it was getting cooler, but tonight the chilly caress of the wind hardly touched his skin. It wouldn't have dared.

Perfectly content, Arthur gently squeezed the smaller hand he held within his own, incredibly grateful to be exactly where he was.

"Does something trouble your mind, Leon?" Morgana asked softly, starting at the sudden gesture.

Arthur shook his head, gazing fondly at her. "No," he replied languorously. "There is nothing in this world foolish enough to disturb my time with you."

"Now _that_," Morgana asserted playfully, "is a sure sign that something is out of sorts. Therefore, you had best have out with it, and with your mind thus at peace, you may continue to enjoy yourself."

Arthur smiled. He liked how simple the Lady Juliana made everything seem. But this - namely the battle he would ride off to tomorrow - was not the type of affair one troubled ladies with. "I think not," Arthur replied, "I would not spoil our evening with talk of it."

But something in his tone or expression betrayed him, and in a moment of striking perception Morgana asked, "Are you riding out with His Majesty tomorrow?"

Arthur was beginning to think Juliana could read his mind. "Yes, I am," he admitted. "There is an important venture to be made, and I have little choice but to go."

Morgana rolled her eyes. It was not so much the notion of battle that irritated her, but the thought that Leon would be taken away for gods only knew how long. "Men and their glory," she murmured disapprovingly. "The King must have dozens of knights available to ride out, for what does he require your services?"

The King grinned behind his mask and tilted his head to the side, looking warmly down at his companion. "Why Milady, I do believe you are worried about me."

Morgana scoffed her denial. "Certainly not, Milord," she answered, with a pompous toss of her head. "It is absolutely your decision to go charging into battle, needlessly or otherwise."

But Arthur was not fooled by the lady's remarks, and tried not to appear too flattered. "Well," he said, the irony not lost on him as he spoke, "I am afraid I must go. His Majesty can be quite insistent."

Morgana let out a breath. "Of course he can. He is, after all, the King."

Arthur took her other hand and halted their walk. "I make a promise to you, Milady," he said, feeling the need to reassure her. "I will come and meet you again the night I return from battle." Arthur held her gaze, watching every emotion flicker through her eyes. "I swear to you that I will arrive whole and unharmed and," he added with particular articulation, "with every intention of spending a peaceful evening entirely with you."

"But Milord, I am not ignorant with regards to a warrior's needs," Morgana protested. "It is likely you will be exhausted –"

"What to me is sleep," Arthur interrupted her, "when I might take time with the most beautiful and magnificent woman in the world?"

Morgana looked away. "You need not exaggerate for the sake of mollification," she said critically.

Arthur's heart thumped forcefully at her grave tone. "I exaggerate nothing," he insisted, willing her to look back at him. "Knowing what elegance and wit I have here to return to…" Arthur shook his head. "You make it impossible I should do otherwise than return from battle, crowned with victory."

Morgana searched his face, and satisfied with what she found in his expression, raised herself on her tiptoes to kiss Arthur softly on the cheek. "Please be safe, Milord," she murmured, a wish and an order.

The kiss was effortless, simple, affectionate, and Arthur relished the touch more than any other in his life. He imagined this to be the feeling Merlin spoke of when he recounted his love; warmth spread through Arthur at the brush of Morgana's lips.

He gently stroked her cheek, still trying to assure himself that the Lady Juliana was real. How could anyone be so enchanting? Her skin was soft, warm and welcoming under his touch, nothing like the cool, inactive embrace of his wife.

"Come," Arthur said, though he would willingly have stood there all evening, a hairsbreadth shy of the lady.

Morgana released one of Arthur's hands and barely tugged on the one she still held, continuing to walk. "Where are you taking me, Milord?" she asked.

"Someplace I love," he answered honestly. "I discovered it as a child, and it has always been a source of joy to me."

Morgana's eyebrows rose. "Then why do you bring me, Milord? I should not like to steal from you that which you in solitude treasure most."

"No," Arthur corrected. "Not steal. Share. Appreciate." He paused. "Even love, perhaps."

Morgana smiled in acceptance. "I thank you for that honor, Leon."

Arthur was embarrassed by her sentiments, and quickly moved on. "Come, it is just this way."

The two were well beyond the castle gardens now, and moving across the grounds. The stars in the sky seemed to glint their approval, and the calmness that pervaded the air lifted Arthur's spirit ever higher. Never mind the battles of tomorrow – tonight was more than enough. His grip on the lady's hand tightened as they headed up the sloping hills.

Morgana sighed indulgently. "Milord, I am capable of keeping my balance, I promise." She granted him a half smile. "I have met my fair share of crags and holes, and my feet are quite able to negotiate their way across the ground."

Arthur's tongue brushed the inside his cheek. "Milady, you have no sympathy for me, do you?"

"Sympathy?" Morgana picked her way over a large rock. "What could Milord possibly mean by that?" she teased.

Arthur gritted his teeth in amused frustration, clambering after her. "Here I am, trying my best to act the gentleman, and yet for all my trouble you scorn my gallantry." This was one of the things that threw him about Juliana – when at one moment his heart swelled with amorous notions, the next it could burst in frustration.

"Scorn it?" Morgana shook her head fervidly. "No, it is hardly that. It is only…" she searched for an explanation. "Well, I suppose I am very used to looking after myself."

The King raised his eyebrows. "Why is that?" he asked, rather surprised. "I confess, most noblewomen I have known have always complained of doting nursemaids and insufferable companions."

Morgana inwardly cursed herself for admitting that, hurriedly thinking of some way to spin this. "Ahh," she breathed. "I suppose it is… not my nature… to allow others to care for me, that is. I enjoy my freedoms, limited though they may be." She ducked her head, trying to pass her fumble as a quirk. "Call me a peculiar spirit, if you will."

Arthur pulled Morgana in the direction of the forest. "Well," he said, after a moment's consideration, "if it matters in any small way to you, Milady, I like your spirit." He smiled and glanced over his shoulder. "You are without doubt the most interesting, unique lady I have ever had the good fortune to meet."

Morgana laughed in relief. "Well thank you, Milord."

"Leon," Arthur corrected, falling back in step with Morgana. "Ah. Here we are," he announced, "and there it is."

Morgana looked askance into the shadows of the trees. "What is it?" she asked, convinced the darkness was playing tricks on her eyes.

Arthur's eyes sparkled as he gently pulled Morgana forward. "That, Lady Juliana," he explained merrily, "is a swing."

Morgana surveyed the object, circumspection mingling with interest. "A what?"

"A swing," Arthur repeated. He moved closer, leading Morgana toward the wooden plank that was seemingly suspended in thin air. "Please, sit."

Morgana was hesitant, but curiosity overrode that feeling, and lifting her long, velvety skirt, she perched delicately on the board. She fought for balance as the swing swiveled beneath her, but Arthur's steady hands at her waist held her in place. Instinctively, Morgana's hands curled around the supporting ropes and she looked up with her mouth hanging open. "How is this possible?" Morgana whispered.

Arthur grinned at her fascination. "The ropes are attached to a thick branch up there; it is difficult to see through the darkness."

"But why?" Morgana asked in wonder. "For what purpose do you have this swing?"

The King laughed and moved around behind her. "Do you trust me, Juliana?" he asked quietly, placing his hands firmly on the ropes.

Morgana looked over her shoulder and nodded her head. "Of course," she answered carefully.

Arthur smiled at her sweet, inquisitive expression. "Then hold tight," he said, and began to pull back on the ropes.


	22. Chapter 22

WiltingDaisies94: Okay, so it's been a little longer than usual on the update (sorry). I have a lot of this story already written, so I'm hoping the interest keeps up for it.

**Recap**: The knights are off for a mission, Arthur and Merlin are going, Lancelot is staying. Gwen has stolen a plant that will temporarily rid her of her voice so Lancelot doesn't figure out that she is "Lady Morgana". Morgana is worried for "Leon" (Arthur), but otherwise happy and oblivious.

But before all this can go wrong, a chapter of light-hearted flirtation with two of our favorite boys. Whee!

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><p><span>Chapter 22<span>

"Good morning, Lily!"

The maid turned around, steadying the basket on her hip which was filled to the brim with dirty clothes. "Morning, Merlin!" she replied brightly, as the manservant came jogging down the hall to meet her.

"How are you?" Merlin asked, smiling and catching his breath.

Lily nodded. "Well, thank you."

"Going out with the washing?" Merlin gestured to her basket.

She shrugged, flicking her eyes upward. "So it would appear. Thus is my lot in life."

Merlin chuckled good-naturedly. "I would offer to help, but I am afraid my orders take me elsewhere, and in haste."

"Where are you off to?" Lily asked, the time suddenly occurring to her. "It seems a bit early for the King to want his breakfast."

Merlin shook his head. "It is never too early for breakfast on a day when His Majesty is setting out for battle."

"Battle?" Lily raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And do you venture with him?"

Merlin shrugged, ducking his head and nodding. "Well, yes, I shall be attending the King." He looked at her sheepishly; Lily made him feel like an incompetent three years of age on occasion. "Does it so surprise you?"

Lily considered him for a moment. She truly liked Merlin; he had been her first friend in Camelot, and she adored his hapless manner and sweet intentions. He had such an honest face, and unlike Sir Gwaine, she thought with a twinge of irritation, she knew she could trust Merlin absolutely.

"No," she answered finally, "it does not surprise me. Were I a noblewoman I should consider myself blessed to have a servant as loyal and caring as you."

Merlin blushed at the compliment, his face adopting a sweetly embarrassed expression. "Well, er, I mean I do try to be –"

Lily laughed at his fumbling. "Get along your way, Merlin," she advised. "The King's breakfast is all assembled in the kitchen, ready to be taken up."

"I… I…" Merlin stumbled over his tongue, and eventually gave up. "Thank you, Lily." He cleared his throat. "Good day."

"May your travels be safe, friend," Lily replied, nodding affectionately.

Merlin waved as the hallway forked. He took the right branch, which would eventually lead to the kitchens, and disappeared from sight.

Lily could not return the gesture, as her hands were full, but she traveled down the left hand corridor in a much better mood than she had been at the beginning of the morning.

Usually Lily preferred doing the washing; anything to get her out of the suffocating heat of the kitchen. Unfortunately, now that the weather was beginning to change, and the northern frosts would be coming in a few weeks, spending time outside with her hands in the cold river water was not particularly appealing.

Well, Lily tried to cheer herself, if nothing else it was a sunny morning. Perhaps the rays of sunshine would serve to warm her.

Lily moved her basket to her other hip and rounded the bend in the hallway. It was lucky that the King was riding out so early in the season, else the knights might be caught in a winter storm and –

"Well, well," a pleased voice said, "what a charming surprise this is."

Lily took a breath and closed her eyes; she knew that voice. "Sir Gwaine," she said through gritted teeth, rotating on the spot.

"Lily." The knight grinned in his usual cocky manner. "Still as fresh and beautiful as ever." He leaned on the doorway behind him, his head lolling innocently against the frame. "It is always a delight to meet my favorite maid."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Pardon me if I seem unappreciative of the flattery, Sir Gwaine," she replied coolly, "but I have rarely met a man with so very many 'favorite maids'. Now, if you would excuse me –"

Gwaine moved and rapidly blocked her path. "Now, now," he admonished playfully, "why so great a hurry?"

The maid felt the familiar sensation of impatience wash over her. "Let me see," she answered dryly, "perhaps it could have something to do with the heavy basket of washing in my hand?"

Raising his eyebrows smartly, Gwaine reached out and took Lily's basket before she could stop him. "There," he said, placing it on the floor. "Now what is your excuse for running off so quickly?"

Lily smiled. "Because Sir Gwaine," she explained crisply, "the longer I speak with you, the faster my opinion of men plummets."

"Oh my," Gwaine replied, putting a hand to his chest, pretending offense. "You wound me terribly, my dear Lily."

"I am not your dear," she snorted, "and somehow I imagine you will survive the blow."

Gwaine took one of her hands and pressed it to his chest, letting her feel his wealth of hard muscle. "I think," he said, with an impish glint in his eye, "you should check. Just to be absolutely certain."

Gods but he was irritating. Lily felt the pulse of his heart under her palm, the regular rhythm unfairly calm. He needed to be taught a lesson, and damned if she couldn't take a few minutes out of her day to do so.

Lily placed her other hand in Gwaine's chest and took a step forward. "Are you riding out with His Majesty today?" she asked quietly.

The knight grinned. "Yes I am."

"And will it be a dangerous mission to undertake?" Lily continued, biting her lower lip innocently.

Gwaine nodded. "Oh indeed. The beast we will battle is a vicious, wicked creature. It will take the strength of many to subdue it." He moved closer to her. "It is a most perilous undertaking."

"Well," she murmured, "then perhaps I should do this now rather than later." She fisted her hands in Gwaine's shirt and tugged.

"You have all my attention." Gwaine ducked his head and bent down.

Lily leaned up and passed over the knight's mouth. "Get out of my way," she whispered sharply, and she bit down on Gwaine's earlobe none too kindly.

"Ah!" the knight winced and stepped back.

Lily released him and stooped to pick up her basket. "Safe travels, Sir Gwaine."

He narrowed his eyes, but simply smiled. "Always." He gave a mock bow.

Lily inclined her head and sauntered away, leaving the knight staring with a bizarre interest after her, one hand massaging his abused ear.


	23. Chapter 23

WiltingDaisies94: Guinevere's plan is all ready to go... but love has a fast hold, and is not overly fond of letting go...

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><p><span>Chapter 23<span>

"What do you mean 'Her Majesty is taken strangely ill'?" Lancelot demanded of the lady-in-waiting who had granted him entrance to the queen's apartments.

"I mean quite what I say, Milord," she replied, her features settled into a quiet anxiety. "She is not feverish or chilled, and neither does she complain of any particular pain or peculiar ailment." She shrugged her stocky shoulders. "The Queen's voice is simply gone."

Lancelot pressed his lips together. "But how? Voices do not simply come and go as they please. Is Her Majesty certain she was not struck or poisoned?"

"Yes, Milord." The lady-in-waiting crossed her arms. "She claims to have suffered similar bouts of silence as a child, although she has never known the cause. Otherwise Her Majesty is perfectly well, and she assures us that her voice will return within a few days."

The knight frowned. "I believe I should see Her Majesty for myself. Inform her of my arrival."

The lady-in-waiting curtsied obediently, despite the disapproving look on her face, and disappeared into the bedchamber.

Lancelot sighed to himself. His Majesty had only been gone a day and already his wife was ill. This was precisely why the King should not have left him behind; Lancelot felt completely out of his depth. He was a knight, and the battlefield was his domain. Domestic issues were an entirely different world of difficulties, and Lancelot could admit (to himself, at least) that he was horribly anxious that something would go wrong which he would powerless to help.

Like this, for example.

He shook his head and began to pace, only to give himself something to do. He had spent all the previous evening pondering what might amuse Her Majesty, what he might show her or introduce her to… but now that she had no voice, Lancelot imagined she would have little spirit for entertainment.

He paused by an open window as his attention was caught. Propped up against the wall was a lute made of dark wood, the strings glinting in the light. Lancelot was immediately drawn to it; queens and illnesses were foreign to him, but music he understood perfectly well.

The instrument was at first awkward in his grip, having clearly been made for smaller hands than his. He spent a moment fitting his hold, and tentatively strummed at the strings, which produced a delicate twang that lingered in the air. Smiling, Lancelot began to play, a pleasant melody of his own invention.

He nodded his head in time to the rhythm, slowing his pace to accustom himself to the smaller lute. "One, two, three, four," he softly counted to himself, leaning against the window ledge.

There. Lancelot smiled as the lute produced a sweet tone. The slower tune sounded better on the littler instrument, and the knight resolved himself to listen to the different tempo on his own lute later.

"_Twas yesteryear when last I met_

_ The lady of the mighty stream,_

_ Arrayed with blooms and a silver robe _

_Which cloaked her as a misty dream._

_ 'Hail, traveler,' called the maid,_

_ And hearkened I to her lively trill._

_ 'Retire thy horse, abate thy woes,_

_ Delay and strengthen thy will."_

Lancelot halted his playing, having struck a wrong string. "No," he muttered to himself, "one higher than that." He fiddled with his hand placement, plucking a few strings until he found the correct one. "There," he said, repeating the sound once, twice, so as not to forget.

_"Here my waters rush clear and clean,_

_ And speak with pride to the noble man_

_ Who hath no secret in his heart,_

_ Nor challenge from which he ran."_

Again the knight paused, dissatisfied. "No." He backed up and repeated the line, tapping out the rhythm with his foot.

_"Who hath no secret in his heart,_

_ Nor cha-"_

Lancelot huffed a bit. "Count, fool, count!" he berated himself. "Not all music may come from your soul, some must be born of your head!"

_"Who hath no secret in his heart, _

_ Nor challenge from which he ran."_

Lancelot continued to play the melody, but in a purely mechanical fashion. His mind was considering revising that last line; perhaps it was the words which were breaking his rhythm, rather than the other way around. Adding another syllable to the line would be too long… so maybe he was in need of another note?

"_If thou be such a man as that_

_ Declaim thy blood and state thy fame_

_ Ooh oh oh oh oh oh ooh ooh_

_ Oh oh oh ooh ooh ooh ooh oh."_

Lancelot had yet to decide on words for the remaining verses, and simply filled in the rest of the tune with sounds. He stopped playing as the verse finished; he knew it would be an important tale someday, though not yet why.

Then, as if awakened, Lancelot heard a small round of applause. He looked up and saw Her Majesty standing by the doorway of her bedchamber, smiling sweetly.

"Your Highness." Lancelot quickly replaced the instrument and bowed deeply to the Queen. "I apologize, I was unaware of your arrival."

Queen Guinevere waved her hand carelessly, gesturing that it was of no matter to her and no offense had been caused.

"I…" Lancelot felt suddenly awkward at having been caught by surprise; he wondered how long Her Majesty had been listening. "You have a lovely instrument, Majesty, it plays very smoothly."

The Queen nodded, walking across the room to a table. There she picked up a quill and jotted down a message on a roll of parchment. She tore the scrap off and held it up for the knight to see. It read:

_What happens next?_

Lancelot was confused. "I beg pardon, Majesty?" he asked.

The Queen raised her eyebrows and pointed to the lute.

"In my song, you mean?" Lancelot guessed.

She nodded and then wrote, _From whence comes this gentleman and why does the Lady of the Stream seek him out?_

Lancelot exhaled, understanding. "I have not discovered yet, Majesty." He smiled. "Perhaps she wishes to view his journey, his future or his desires. Perhaps she would seduce the gentleman away from goodness or entreat him to it." He shrugged. "It is yet to be decided."

The Queen appraised the knight with a curious expression, rubbing her fingers together silently. She replaced the parchment and quill on the table, although she left her eyes on Lancelot, a gaze that produced a bizarre sensation in the knight.

He tried to say something, but before he could the Queen held up a finger, indicating that he should wait a moment, and turned away, slipping back through the door to the bedchamber.

Confused, Lancelot rearranged his stance. A breeze came through the window behind him, flicking at the back of his neck. It was a chilling sensation and Lancelot moved his shoulders back to be rid of it.

The door opened again, and the Queen came through, holding a long wooden object in her hand. Carefully she lifted it to her lips, and positioning her hands along the body of the flute, she began to play Lancelot's melody back to him.


	24. Chapter 24

WiltingDaisies94: Don't really have much to say for this chapter... other than I really like to imagine Angel and Santiago acting it out. The two of them are so sweet together.

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><p><span>Chapter 24<span>

Guinevere smiled and walked through the door Lancelot held open for her. The inn was a deserted place in the middle of the day, and slightly dark, as the candles had yet to be lit. Waiting for Lancelot to catch up with her, she looked around curiously.

Originally the Queen had been all prepared to hibernate in her chambers until the King's return, avoiding the knight at all costs. She'd chewed the dumbcane the night before His Majesty departed, and tossed away the contents of the physician's vile. Having no voice, she'd assumed, would serve as her protection, and no one could blame her for dismissing Lancelot from her presence.

Unfortunately, all her plans had been dashed to pieces the moment she'd stepped out of her bedchamber and heard him play. Guinevere had a terrible soft spot for music, and Lancelot's song pierced her heart with shocking immediacy. She'd been caught under the lilting spell of his voice and playing, and her mind adamantly refused to send him away.

"Please, have a seat, Milady." The knight took her hand unassumingly, and led her to a small table by the wall. "Give me a moment, I shall fetch us something to drink." He smiled at her nod, and moved to speak with the barmaid.

Guinevere watched him, studying the knight's profile. A few thick, curling locks of hair were falling across his forehead, and she found it surprisingly charming.

She sighed. He'd had to talk her into coming to the inn, but most of her fight had been for show. It had hit Guinevere like a tower dropped on her head the moment he opened his mouth to ask – she was helpless to refuse him.

"Here you are, Majesty." Lancelot returned with two flagons and handed one to Guinevere, sitting down beside her. "Careful, it has a bit of spice to it."

The Queen smiled and reached for the satchel she had brought with her. Out of the leather bag came a roll of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill, which she lined up on the table before her.

_Where is he?_ Guinevere wrote, and slid the note over to Lancelot.

"He should be along shortly, Majesty; the player always arrives around midday." He passed the parchment back. "I think you will enjoy his work. He does not sing, and I do not think I have ever heard him speak, but his music is divinely beautiful."

_Of course_. The Queen paused for a moment, and then continued, _Thank you._

The knight ducked his head in a gentle motion. "It is always a pleasure, Majesty. I confess, when the King asked me to stay behind I was somewhat disappointed." He raked a hand embarrassedly though his hair. "I feel now that I owe you an apology. Had I known how delightful it is to be your escort, I should not have hesitated at all."

Guinevere scribbled away, pausing to drink from her flagon. _You flatter me, sir. I assure you it is unnecessary. _

Lancelot looked at her in stupefaction. "What? No, no! Majesty, you must know that I do not idly flatter." His tone was purely honest, filled with regret at any accidental interpretation. "His Majesty is exceedingly fortunate to have discovered so charming a wife as he has in you. Even without words, you have a most kindly spirit, Majesty."

Guinevere flushed, glad that her dark skin hid the heat in her cheeks. _I would not have kept a knight from his duties,_ she wrote, _but if any of my husband's company were required to remain in the palace, I should always have chosen the musician._

Lancelot laughed and took a swig of his drink. "I consider that my own fortunate advantage, Majesty, to have a mistress who appreciates the gift of music as well as I do. I would make no complaint against my brothers-in-arms, only that they are highly skeptical of my passions." He shrugged his shoulders a bit hopelessly, but brightened as he faced the Queen. "But you, Majesty, you play with the skill and delicacy of an artist."

Guinevere bit her lip, smiling; he had such earnest eyes. She bent her head to scrawl her next message. _I can only claim_ – no, she thought, scratching it out. She paused for a moment, thinking out an appropriate response. It was good thing she couldn't speak; she hardly trusted her own tongue not to betray her thoughts.

_Tell me, why did you decide to become a knight? _

"Ahh," Lancelot breathed. "You have struck the query to end all other queries, Majesty." He folded his arms, looking up as he considered the question. "I suppose there is not simply one reason I chose to be a knight. Yes, it was expected of me, as a nobleman – to a certain extent it was deemed the proper thing to do."

Guinevere sat back in her chair, abandoning her impeccable posture for a more comfortable position. She tilted her head, looking at her companion with a discernible interest written in the crinkle of her forehead.

"But it was more than that." Lancelot's fingers drummed absentmindedly along the handle of his flagon. "There is an instinct connected with knighthood, an impulse that comes from within – it is difficult to explain." Lancelot shook his head. "A knight always understands when he is needed, and cannot help but answer when called."

It was a lovely reply. Guinevere could only gaze at the knight, her lips parted and an expression of impressed contentment on her face.

Lancelot shook his head humbly. "I suppose you could call it foolhardy, but I cannot ignore a call for assistance."

_And would you do anything at His Majesty's command?_

"Yes," Lancelot admitted, uncrossing his arms. "Or at yours, Majesty."

Guinevere released the quill and looked at him, a sort of disbelief and surprise in her eyes. What did he mean? She understood Lancelot's loyalty to the King, his sovereign and friend, but to her? He hardly knew her… he certainly didn't know that she was the girl from the masque…

And nonetheless he was offering her his everything: friendship, goodwill, help, and trust. It nearly broke Guinevere's heart all over again. What use was being Queen if she couldn't have the one thing she really wanted?

_In that case, I have a request for you, Lancelot. _

The knight raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Majesty?"

Guinevere closed her eyes, taking a moment to collect herself. It was a bad idea and she knew it, but everything about Lancelot pulled her in deeper. He was so easy to be with; she couldn't even speak and she was still more comfortable with him than her husband.

_ Call me Guinevere. _

The knight read the words and shook his head. "Majesty, I cannot. It would be a breach of decorum to do so."

The Queen chuckled soundlessly. _Would you at least drop the "Majesty", then? I have been a princess my entire life, Sir Lancelot; enough new faces are referring to me by my title. _

"But," he protested gallantly, truly distressed, "I could not presume such familiarity."

_Perhaps we may compromise on 'Milady'?_

And Lancelot would have protested against that, if only the Queen's eyes had not conveyed such sadness. She was so young, he thought, so beautiful and alone. Had he not been commanded by his king to keep her happy? Was it not his duty to serve the Queen just as well?

"As you wish, Milady," he acquiesced.

And the smile he was granted in return was sweet enough to cast away all his doubts, extinguishing them like a blown out candle.


	25. Chapter 25

WiltingDaisies94: And we're back! I know it's been a while since my last update, and I apologize for that. Summer's been a busy time for me.

But now that the Season 5 Merlin trailer is circulating round the net, my willpower has reemerged. This chapter we're taking a break from the Lance/Gwen romance to spend some time with Morgana._ Italics_ indicates flashback. As usual, please read and review!

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><p><span>Chapter 25<span>

Morgana stretched contentedly across the ground, reveling in the prickling sensation produced by the waving, twitching grass beneath her, writhing as it tickled her exposed skin.

"The more you squirm, the worse it will become," Lily scolded her, with the precise I-know-better tone of an elder sister.

"Oh come now, do not be cross, Lily." Morgana giggled and sat up, nudging her friend in the shoulder. "Who is the one in a mood now, hm?"

Lily crinkled her nose and bumped Morgana right back. "Oh spare me your patronizing, would you?"

Morgana raised her eyebrows. "Indeed," she teased, "because that seems a very likely outcome."

But the scullery maid wore such a look on her face, that Morgana felt almost contrite for her banter. She reached out a hand and touched her friend's arm. "Tell me what occupies your thoughts so forcefully. You look downright melancholy."

Lily flicked an imaginary blade of grass off her skirt, relaxing under Morgana's touch. "It is nothing," she replied, looking vaguely past Morgana.

Morgana was less than convinced. "Do not say you are regretting your actions towards Sir Gwaine?" she guessed.

Lily chuckled against her will. "Certainly not. It was the most brilliant action I have taken all week long." Her eyes brightened at the memory. "His expression was utterly stupefied; I shall never forget it."

Morgana laughed along with Lily, in an infinitely joyful mood. The day was unseasonably warm, and the sun sent its rays downwards in simple, elegant waves of heat and bright light.

She'd been in this uplifted state since her last meeting with her masked gentleman. And though she might have been despondent at his departure, worried for his safety, Leon had left her with such charming recollections that nothing seemed to dampen her spirit. Every thought of the nobleman brought with it memories of their adventure with the swing, and Morgana could not help that same weightless feeling from overtaking her being.

Even when her poor mistress had caught ill and had her voice stolen from her, Morgana had difficulty allowing that to cloud her happiness. Besides, Her Majesty was spending increasing amounts of time with Sir Lancelot, whom the King had left behind to act as her guardian. With the Queen's attention taken, Morgana was free to contemplate as she liked, once her chores were completed.

"Well if not that, then I beg you not to shut me out." Morgana stretched out her body and rested her head across Lily's lap, looking up at her appealingly. "What troubles your heart, my friend?"

Lily sighed and some of the laughter in her eyes faded away. "It is not much to speak of, I am afraid. All I might say is that I am worried."

"Worried?" Morgana picked absentmindedly at a long piece of grass. "For who? Sir Gwaine?"

Lily gave an almighty snort of contempt. "Oh please, let us humor my intelligence a bit more than that, shall we?" She shook her head in quick, short motions. "Go on and let the fool injure himself; it would serve in saving me from further harassment."

Morgana, who still suspected that Lily actually liked the roguish knight a good deal more than she would ever have admitted, did not push the topic. "Then who is it, dear? Who has your mind twisted with concern?"

Lily brushed a hand lazily through Morgana's long hair, which for once she was wearing loose. "Merlin," Lily eventually murmured, her eyes glazed over in thought.

Morgana squinted up at her. Was it a trick of light, or did she see a faint color in Lily's cheeks? "Merlin?" she asked in confused curiosity. "The King's manservant? Why should he cause you unease?"

Lily shrugged thoughtlessly. "I always worry for him when he rides out with the knights. He is not a warrior, you know, and yet he puts himself at such risk for the King's sake." She began untangling a knot in Morgana's wavy hair. "Not that Merlin would ever confess it, but I think he is a much greater friend than His Majesty has ever deserved."

"You seem oddly protective," Morgana commented, wiping her hand on her apron. "I know I have only been in Camelot a short while, but I have not seen many of your interactions." She paused. "Does he really mean so much to you?"

Lily smiled a sweet and misty expression. "Of course."

Morgana rolled onto her side, her cheek resting on Lily's leg. "Why?"

Lily's fingers worked smoothly, the practiced motions falling into a calming rhythm. "Call it habit, I suppose. I have known Merlin for a long time."

"Tell me," Morgana requested breathily, closing her eyes.

"Very well," Lily agreed, gently working through a tricky tangle. "But only if you behave yourself."

"Yes, I will," Morgana promised, feeling oddly like her mistress asking to have her hair braided. "Go on."

"Merlin," Lily began, "was the first person I met when I came to work in the castle. I am not originally from Camelot, and I admit, I was rather hopelessly lost; the only person who took pause enough to give me directions was Merlin, and that," she said with a grin, "was only because he was locked in the stocks."

Morgana giggled.

"He looked so helpless and ridiculous, with bits of rotten tomato dripping off his face." Lily shook her head, laughing. "Poor dear, I felt so badly for him, I simply had to go over and offer some aid…"

_"Pardon me," Lily said, walking over to the wooden beams, "might I help you?"_

_ The young man shook his head cheerfully. "I doubt it," he replied congenially, "unless you happen to be a locksmith's apprentice, in which case help would be much appreciated."_

_ Lily tossed her head and sighed, smiling. "I am afraid I cannot claim such skill. But perhaps," she said, fishing in her apron, "I could relieve you a bit?" She produced a clean linen kerchief and held it out questioningly. "May I? ... er...?"_

_"Merlin." The young man shrugged as best he could with his confined movements. "And yes, I would be obliged, miss...?"_

_"Lily." She reached out and began gently wiping away the chunks and juice of rotten vegetables. "Well," she said, trying to keep the conversation light, "I will say this much for the people of Camelot – they have very good aim."_

_ "And a never ending supply of ammunition," Merlin added ruefully. "One might think that at a certain point they would simply run out of things to throw, but one would apparently be wrong."_

_ Lily laughed, moving to clear his forehead. "Close your eyes for a moment, please." She swiped something that looked rather like a squashed blackberry out of Merlin's hair. "How did you end up in the stocks, anyway?" _

_ "Ah." Merlin gritted his teeth. "I, uh, I displeased my master; I did not have his armor polished and ready for use when he called for it."_

_ "And for only that offense he would punish you thus?" Lily shook her head disapprovingly. "How impatient! Your master must imagine himself some sort of king to treat his servant so poorly."_

_ Merlin opened his eyes and smiled, amused by Lily's ignorance. "Unfortunately he has the right to do so."_

_ "Oh? And why is that?"_

_ "Because," Merlin explained simply, "my master is the King." _

"Ouch!"

"Hm?" Lily looked down as Morgana winced; she had pulled too hard on her hair. "Oh! My apologies."

Morgana mumbled her discontent, but settled back down quickly, too peaceful to be disturbed. "And then what?" she asked drowsily.

"I felt a fool, that is what," Lily said. "But Merlin was quite good about it; he thanked me for my aid and pointed me in the proper direction." She looked up, trying to recall the rest of their conversation. "We have been friends ever since."

"Mm," Morgana murmured. "Sweet."

"Yes," Lily agreed, stroking her sleepy companion's hair, "he was."


	26. Chapter 26

WiltingDaisies94: Well we have Lance and Gwen happily tucked away together, and Morgana spending her days chilling with Lily... so it is time to catch up with our beloved boys. They rode on out to battle a while ago and I think they deserve some screen time, don't you?

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><p><span>Chapter 26<span>

"Argh!" With an almighty pull, Arthur yanked the short, twisted horn out of the dead beast's head. The entire body shuddered at the removal, no mean feat considering the enormity of the creature. "Roughly the size of a mountain goat" had been a gross understatement; the monster was easily twice that big.

It had taken the better part of the previous night and early morning to defeat the monster. Arthur's strategy had worked only marginally well, and it was plucking at his conscious. He knew that splitting his knights into two factions should have gone much more smoothly than it had, and the fact that it hadn't only forced him to consider longer hours of drilling with the knights.

There had been several miscommunications between the men stationed at the top of the butte and those at the bottom. Where Arthur's knights should have had the natural advantage, the creature kept winning out, and the struggle had gone on longer than the King had hoped. As a result of the incompetence at least half of his knights were injured, and the rest dispirited and attempting to compensate for their wounded companions.

Turning his back on the monster's body, Arthur barked orders at the closest knights who were not preoccupied with their injured comrades or frightened horses. "Burn the carcass," he commanded. "This smarts of evil doing; I do not want any part of the creature used."

Sir Gwaine, wiping away a trickle of blood from his cheek, his infallible grin still in place, quipped, "Camp-fire style, or burnt to a crisp?"

Arthur rolled his eyes; sometimes the knight's unflagging humor was a godsend, but sometimes it simply drove him mad. "How does charred beyond all recognition sound?" he replied dryly, not letting the long-haired knight get the better of his composure.

Gwaine smiled roguishly. "As you like it, Majesty." He rubbed his hands together, and went off in search of flint.

Arthur crossed the upper section of the butte, scanning carefully. "Garrett!" he called out, spotting the man he needed.

The tall knight was crouched over a comrade, and his head jerked sharply as he looked up at the sound of the King's voice. "Yes Majesty?" he replied shortly; Garrett was tending to a wounded man, and as much as he respected Arthur, he was not pleased with being disturbed.

"Send someone as an envoy to the village," Arthur commanded with his eerie calm. "We must inform the people that the creature is vanquished before we ride out." He paused. "And choose someone fleet-footed," he added.

"Of course, Majesty." The taller knight turned back to his injured companion and rested his head gently on the ground before he stood and began to issue a string of orders.

Arthur put a hand to his temple, trying to remember what else he needed to take care of.

"Sire!" Merlin approached him, appearing over the far end of the butte from where the second regiment of knights had made their attack. He was sweating, but had no visible wounds, Arthur noticed with a quiet, interior relief.

"Report!" the King demanded; as usual, his true fondness for his manservant was not well expressed.

"All men accounted for," Merlin replied, swiping at his bangs, "two dead, Sir Uland and Sir Norin, with another seven injured."

Arthur grimaced, shaking his head and gritting his teeth painfully. "Damn," he hissed under his breath, but quickly collected himself. "Then there is no help for it," he decided. "We ride out for Camelot tonight."

"Tonight?" Merlin's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Majesty, are you certain that is the way to proceed? There are men that require burial and –"

"We go, Merlin!" Arthur nearly roared, finally dropping his controlled facade. "On this side alone I have another ten men injured by the beast, one more dead, eight horses bolted, and two men just clinging to life now!" His blue eyes flashed intensely, blazing with authority and a small streak of fear that only Merlin recognized. "Of the fifty men who departed Camelot, barely half are able to ride." Arthur's voice dropped as tried to reign in his heightened temper. "We return immediately."

Merlin was unsurprised by the sudden outrage; battle always had a stressing affect on the young king. Though he'd never own up to it, Arthur felt each and every death personally, considered it unnecessary and preventable.

"Yes, Majesty." Merlin brooked no further argument and bowed deferentially to his master. "I will pass along the message."

Arthur nodded, trying to regain his breath. "Merlin!" he said, calling his manservant back. "Take this," he said, handing him the horn he'd taken from the creature. "Deliver it to Sir Leon, as a token for leading the charge."

"Of course, Sire." Merlin took the horn and hurried away.

Attempting to put together his thoughts and organize everything around him, Arthur turned back. He surveyed his knights, each moving to fulfill his orders; a moment later the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils as the creature's body went up in flames.

He had to get all his men back to Camelot as fast as possible, somewhere the wounded could be taken care of, where the uninjured could regroup and analyze the battle.

But almost more than all that, a traitorous voice in his head reminded, returning home meant he would meet Lady Juliana sooner. The King closed his eyes and could nearly imagine her soft lips, her delighted laughter, her smaller hand tucked protectively within his own.

She was the opposite of all this blood and pain, the escape from a much harsher reality. She would not shy away from asking how the battle had gone, but would also not press him to explain. There was a sense of proportion with her, and a daring that made her so unbelievably easy to talk to; a lady without all the irritatingly demure habits.

That was some of the truth of it. As well as Arthur cared for his men, he knew that the only repose he would find for himself would come with the next meeting with his lady, and the faster he returned to Camelot, the sooner he could find her.

With his thoughts thus preoccupied, the King went to oversee the progress of his men. It was not until much later in the evening, as he rode rapidly homeward, that he gave even a passing thought to his wife.


	27. Chapter 27

WiltingDaisies94: No introduction is necessary this time, I think. It's been a while since I last updated (what else is new), but I'll be good again, I promise. A lot of this fic has been written since then, and is ready to be published.

Thank you all for reading, as ever! And happy new season of Merlin!

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><p><span>Chapter 27<span>

Lancelot was very, very troubled.

He had been ever since the King's messenger had reached the castle that morning and reported that the knights were returning promptly to Camelot. It wasn't the fact itself that had his innards all twisted around; rather it was the strange feelings that had accompanied hearing the news.

Logically, Lancelot knew he should have been pleased to be relieved of his duties as guardian to the Lady Guinevere (Her Majesty, he reminded himself forcefully). But when he was informed of the King's impending arrival, a bitter wave of sadness and something Lancelot was loath to identify as disloyalty swept through his stomach.

And Lancelot had not the least idea why.

Yes, he admitted, he had immensely enjoyed the time he'd spent with the Queen over the last few days. He could not in the least understand the rumors he'd been hearing with regards to the King's cool indifference to his wife. Her Ladyship (Majesty!) was a delight, adventurous and fascinated with the new land around her. Lancelot thought it spoke much to her character that even without a voice she could still be so interesting to accompany.

And, he thought absentmindedly, she did have an excruciatingly sweet smile.

Lancelot sighed, running a hand through his thick hair; he was thinking of Lady Morgana again. She still had not appeared to meet him, though he had waited faithfully every night. It had been weeks since the masque, and he was beginning to fear that she was nothing more than a figment of his love-starved imagination.

Perhaps that accounted for some of his immediate attachment to Her Majesty – she occasionally reminded him of the Lady Morgana. Not in any obvious way, and Lancelot fancied that the Queen was slightly shorter, but from time to time she would make some gesture, or smile just so, and the knight would find himself transported back to the evening where he'd met Lady Morgana...

_"Ahh!" Guinevere yelped as Lancelot bit into a grape which ungraciously sprinkled her with juice. "Be careful!"_

_ Lancelot chuckled adorably. "Apologies, Milady."_

_ Guinevere flicked the side of her cheek with a finger. "Repent your misdeed, then," she challenged. _

_ "What would Your Ladyship have of me?" Lancelot asked, swallowing the grape. _

_ The Princess pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Ask me to dance," she ordered imperiously, dropping her head to the side._

_ Lancelot laughed and slung his leg over the bench. "Oh gentle lady," he began dramatically, standing up and bowing gallantly from the waist, "wouldst thou be so kind as to offer this poor gentleman a dance?"_

_ Guinevere opened her mouth and smiled, lifting her eyes up high as if she were taking on some great task. "Well," she said slowly, pretending an endearing hesitance, "I do suppose I could be persuaded to, if Milord is so inclined to choose me." _

_ "For each and every promenade, should Milady so accept." Lancelot held out his hand gracefully, a roguish grin crossing his face. _

_ Guinevere chewed her tongue for a moment, but it was all in good fun. "Very well," she replied elegantly, taking his outstretched hand and allowing the knight to aid her to her feet. _

_ Someone else had taken over playing the lute and pipes, and a lively melody floated through the room. Several of the infinite guests had cleared a space in the center of the hall for dancing, and Lancelot led his beautiful partner across the floor. The two brought their hands together and stepped apart._

_ Lancelot watched Guinevere, the cool ease of her movements as her long skirt hurried after her. Her curling hair was tucked up, exposing the graceful sweep of her neck. Her long fingers moved fluidly, as if she did not have bones in her hands. Lancelot felt trotting, clumsy compared to Guinevere's beauty, and he could not help but watch her admiringly. _

_ "Do not think me rude, Milady," Lancelot murmured, a bit star-struck, "but I am compelled to say that you are without doubt the loveliest, most charming creature I have ever met."_

_ "I call your counterfeit, Milord," she teased, "for I have seen a far more attractive being." She ducked under Lancelot's lifted arm and spun evenly, twice._

_ "Impossible," he bantered back, switching sides with her. "Where could you find such a one?"_

_ Guinevere's smile twinkled irrepressibly. "In my mirror, every morning."_

_ Lancelot let out a bark of laughter at her shamelessness. "Let it never be said that beauty endows humility!"_

_ The princess giggled, and in a moment of strikingly unladylike behavior, she stuck out her tongue. _

_ Lancelot was heartily amused, enjoying her carefree nature. "I must admit, Milady, I had not originally thought that I would much enjoy this masque; too many years in Camelot have been closing my mind to the possibilities of other customs."_

_ Guinevere shook her head. "It is a political gesture, Milord, meant to please the Princess." Her tone darkened slightly. "I can understand the hesitation."_

_ Lancelot lowered his gaze. "You mistake me. What I mean to say, though perhaps I am doing so poorly, is that I am exceedingly glad that I came this evening." He ceased his dancing and took her hands in his, leading her away from the open floor. "My greatest regret would have been missing you, and I cringe to think that I would not even have known it."_

_ Guinevere made a "hm" sound, clearly flattered._

_ "Would you like," Lancelot asked, as bashfully unsure as a fumbling youth, "to meet with me again, Milady? After the wedding, of course?"_

Lancelot bit his thumb between his teeth. She had taken so long to give him a response, looked thoughtful and almost calculating as he'd waited on her answer. She'd hummed and shaken her head, twisted her hands together, and altogether stretched out Lancelot's nerves before she'd agreed.

And in the end she'd lied, hadn't she? As long as he had waited on her, as hard as he'd hoped, Lady Morgana had not contacted him since the masque. And spending all this time with the Queen was reminding him heavily of those facts.

The door to his chambers was opened by the guards, and as if his thoughts had conjured her, Guinevere entered. She was dressed in a flattering sapphire gown that set off her caramel skin perfectly, giving her a gentle glow. She smiled when her eyes landed on the knight.

"Milady." Lancelot bowed immediately. "I have news," he said, startled by his own will to tell her the truth and his stilted tone.

The Queen raised her eyebrows, coming towards him, her smile slackening. She did not need words to ask what was going on.

"The King, Milady." Lancelot shook his head, trying to find the words. "The King is returning."


	28. Chapter 28

WiltingDaisies94: Ugh, so I've been watching Season 5 (I'm up through episode 4), and I am much less than pleased. Morgana is still awesome, no doubt, and evil still looks good on her, especially with the lessening of her smirking habit. But Gwen... what Gwen? Has she showed up for more than fifteen minutes so far? And Gwen and Arthur together... all of the ArMor fandom should be banging its head against the castle walls... G/A act more like brother and sister than M/A ever did... where is the sexual attraction? WHERE?!

*breathes*

Okay. So ranting aside... happy ArMor chapter!

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><p><span>Chapter 28<span>

"At last."

Arthur breathed in Morgana's fresh scent, his arms wrapping around her slender waist as she grasped his back; they could not come close enough to each other. Arthur lifted Morgana so that her feet barely brushed the ground, tightening his hold on her.

When the two finally broke from their embrace, neither relaxed their pose. Arthur kept his arms around Morgana, much as he had the first time they'd met. Morgana placed her hands flat against Arthur's chest, gazing up at him with a look of pure relief.

"You are back," she murmured breathily, one hand reaching up to caress the exposed part of his face.

"Did I not tell you I would return unharmed, Milady?" Arthur leaned into her familiar, tender touch, nuzzling his nose against her hand. "I do not make promises I cannot keep." He smiled as her eyes searched his face. "Were you worried?"

Morgana laughed a delicate, easy sound. "Only that your stubborn nature should bring you to trouble," she replied, though her reproach was empty.

Arthur pulled her closer, kissing her smiling lips; he'd been yearning to do that the entire journey home. Their mouths sealed together, a perfect fit as Arthur and Morgana molded together. Feeling deprived and endlessly grateful to be home, Arthur shivered under the soft touch of Morgana's fingers against the nape of his neck, and opened her mouth further to deepen the kiss.

Closer.

All Morgana ever wanted was him to come closer, even when there was no more space to fill. The last few days had been darkened by an undertone of anxiety that had settled in the back of Morgana's mind. Whenever she was not with Lily, or attending to her chores or her mistress, Leon would flicker through her head, the constant question of his safety nagging at her. She did not want to admit how relieved she was when he stepped out of the forest and wrapped his arms around her.

"Mm," Morgana hummed contentedly, pulling back slowly, placing a peck on his lips as she did so. "Welcome back, Leon." She curled her arms up against herself and rested her head on his shoulder.

Arthur smiled, drawing Morgana into his chest. For the first time, an odd twinge of irritation struck him at being called by his knight's name. The kingly part of his ego was roaring to hear Lady Juliana express that same sentiment to _him_; Arthur, not Leon.

Morgana sighed, closing her eyes, enjoying the solidity that was Arthur. "Thank you for meeting me this evening, Milord," she whispered. "I know you must be in need of a good night's rest."

The King chuckled. "Well, I cannot deny that I am fatigued from the journey. But," he assured her, "I could not forgo seeing Milady, since the opportunity arises so infrequently."

Morgana moved her head to look up at him. "Milord," she replied defensively, "I know that I am not –"

"Shh, shh," Arthur shushed her, guiding her back to resting against him; she fit beautifully. "I did not mean to accuse, Milady. You have your secrets, and they are your own to keep for the moment." He inhaled the scent of her long hair. "I meant only to express how much more often I should like to meet you."

Morgana's heart fluttered. "Tomorrow," she said decisively, stepping back. "I will not keep you long this evening; you require your rest."

"As you wish, Milady." Arthur offered her his arm. "My judgment thanks you, though I admit, my spirit rather protests."

Morgana shook her head. "I give you little choice, Milord," she replied confidently, taking his arm.

Arthur accepted her answer without saying anything. The two walked together on the outskirts of the forest; they had arranged to meet by Arthur's swing, and began to wander away from the spot, too busy looking at each other to care where they were going.

"So," Morgana asked, watching the moonlight bounce off Arthur's golden mask, "did the King's company defeat the creature easily?"

"Milady," Arthur tried to persuade, knowing she would insist nonetheless, "you should not like to hear talk of battle, it is sinister, with little for a lady –"

Morgana pursed her lips and tilted her head down in a disapproving motion. "Nonsense," she interrupted clearly. "If I were a squeamish little thing I should not have asked in the first place."

"Yes," the King persisted, hoping she would fight him on the point, "but I am sure you only ask out of a sense of courtesy for the knights' wellbeing and my own. As I doubt our battle tactics are of much curiosity to you –"

"Then you mistake what may be of interest to me," Morgana retorted easily. "It matters little to me, from a purely strategic point of view, how many of the knights were injured. I want to know _why_ they were harmed, what went wrong with the King's plan, and how His Majesty plans to remedy it so the mistakes are not repeated."

Arthur let out a bark of laughter and shook his head, charmed by her incorrigible nature. "Lady Juliana, I should be careful if I were you; your words give away your secrets. I can now with confidence say that your father was a military man."

Morgana raised her eyebrows; she had no intention of revealing how she'd truly acquired her tactical knowledge. Her mistress had often been forced by the King of Carmelide to attend sessions of planning with his knights, more for Guinevere to gauge the kingdom's geographical interests than to gather military information. As it was deemed inappropriate for the Princess to be the only female present, Morgana had often gone along as her companion, and always stood, attention rapt, as the knights talked strategy with the king.

"Perhaps," was the vague response she offered Arthur. "Or possibly a brother or uncle," she suggested. "Or yet, just an unusual education." Morgana moved intriguingly away from Arthur. "No matter though. Tell me about the battle."

And unwilling to concede that she had a point, Arthur began to recount the fight. He explained, diagramming the space in the air, walking Morgana through the attack from his tactical point of view. He found as he explained that he was choosing his words carefully, to make his plan seem as effective as possible. A nervousness in his chest kicked at him; Arthur realized he wanted Morgana's good opinion of his strategic capabilities.

First he explained the overall layout of the terrain, described the creature, and depicted the formation of his knights. Morgana watched him with eyes that took in everything, an expression that understood all, and nodded on occasion. When Arthur finished the preliminaries, she stopped him.

"But," Morgana said, holding up a hand, "if the size of the creature's head was really so much larger than that of its body, obviously the weak point would have been in the neck. And if the eyes were centered forward, the clear attack would be a center charge with a faction of four or five attacking from behind; a misdirection, like the Whitebaron's Charge." She shook her head, trying to visualize. "The frontal attack would have forced the creature backwards, giving the knights in the raised position an easy target, and the advantage of surprise."

Arthur looked at her in amazement; it all sounded so simple and obvious coming from her. And it was a perfectly viable plan at that… she could even cite the battle that had developed the strategy…

"I love you."

The words slipped out before Arthur even realized he was saying them. They came so naturally, understandably, that there was no hesitation, no doubt as he spoke. It had happened without the King seeing; leaving Camelot had allowed his heart to revolt against the separation from his Lady. This, he knew, was no idle flirtation, no passing fancy – she had his love, and he had no wish or will to escape her hold.

He heard Morgana's shortened breath, saw her mouth barely open, but a part of him knew she was not surprised or unhappy. Arthur had the feeling that she knew just as he did, and it was only the vocalizing of thought that gave her pause.

"Please Milady," Arthur started to apologize nonetheless. "I–"

"No." Morgana stopped him, placing the tips of her fingers against his lips. "Do not apologize," she whispered.

And that was all the permission Arthur needed to take her wrist and guide it away from his mouth, leaving him free to lean in for a kiss which revealed Morgana's answer as surely as if she had spoken it.


	29. Chapter 29

WiltingDaisies94: So I've been vacillating about whether or not to start another Merlin story. On the one hand, I am annoyed enough with Season 5. On the other hand, I'm not a great updater and I don't know how much more guilt I can live with.

But anyway...

Last chapter before a reveal, okay everyone? Literally just stick with me through this one chapter more and then I promise you'll get your reveal!

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><p><span>Chapter 29<span>

Lancelot knew it was ridiculous to wait for her night after night; part of the reason he'd wanted to go fight with the King was to rid himself of the anxiety of waiting on Lady Morgana. He was tired of having his hopes dashed every evening, and feeling like a fool for returning to the same place anyway.

The knight glanced up and down the empty corridor, feeling like a fixture of the wall. The occasional servants on their way to retiring for the night had long since learned to ignore his presence, even if they could not interpret its meaning. Sighing, Lancelot placed himself on the stone bench, settling himself in for another disappointing night.

Lancelot's mind drifted around, trying to distract him from his discontent, and only succeeded in landing on another topic the knight was attempting to avoid: Queen Guinevere. He was inwardly saddened by the end of their time together, knowing that the comfortable repertoire they had developed would shortly disappear.

Though it distressed him, Lancelot knew the separation was inevitable and necessary. Lately the knight had been having increasingly unkind thoughts towards His Majesty. The King had a beautiful, charming wife and hardly understood it at all. Arthur did not appreciate her goodness, her sweetness, the moonlit glow she always possessed…

It was jealousy and he knew it, an ugly creature that Lancelot desperately tried to ward off, to no avail. The Queen transformed him, brought out the best of his qualities and reciprocated his interests. He loved her long before he was willing to admit it to himself, and he was helpless against his feelings. Dragged away like a doll in a thunderstorm, he was drawn to Guinevere, all against his better judgment. Where was the logic in love? Lancelot asked himself a hundred times over. How was he going to survive once the King returned? How was he going to face the King at all?

Ironically the knight's only saving grace was the haunting presence of Lady Morgana in the back of his mind. Like a man being drawn and quartered, each of his limbs was pulled in a different direction, and no matter which he leaned into, it was agonizing. Lancelot was a romantic in the truest sense; he had never anticipated loving two women at once, one as insubstantial as a night tale, the other already belonging to his greatest friend. It was a mess, the whole of it, and terribly depressing to the knight's spirit.

"Good evening, Milord."

Lancelot's head shot up at the sound of the voice, hoarse and nearly inaudible. There, standing a few paces away from him, her dark gown brushing the cold stone floor, was the Lady herself, the absent specter made flesh again.

He stood immediately, terrified he'd passed on into full hallucinations. "Milady?" He stepped forward, a hand unconsciously reaching out. "Is it you?"

In a raspy voice, quiet and insubstantial, she replied, "It is I."

All rational thoughts fled the knight's brain and without hesitation he flew to the Lady. It never occurred to him that he should berate her or resent her lack of communication; merely the sight of her was irresistible.

Lancelot wrapped his arms around her, overcome with relief and emotion. 'Why?' he tried to ask, looking down at the smaller figure. 'Why have you avoided me? Where have you been all these weeks? How could you leave me to wonder and fear? Who are you?'

Guinevere, from behind her mask, saw the confusion on Lancelot's open face. Being there at all was nearly crushing her soul with guilt, but what could she do? Lancelot… he understood her perfectly. Spending days with him as her nearest companion had made her more comfortable in Camelot than any of the dozens of courtiers and nobles she'd met. He was friendly, easy to talk with, so completely unlike her husband.

That was the truth – the King and Queen spent as little time together as possible. When they did see each other there was a rather cool civility, and though they might have once stood a chance of being friends, something, some unknown barrier or divide had eliminated that possibility.

It had been at first a relief to Guinevere to hear that His Majesty was leaving for battle, but the contrasting news of Lancelot's remainder was the only thing that had made her worry or care. It was not that she was too cold a person to not be bothered if her husband lived or died; she worried for his safety, but on a very impersonal level for a spouse.

It was terrible to Guinevere, thinking of her love for Lancelot as betrayal. She knew she did not love Arthur, and she had a suspicion that he would very much prefer to love someone else.

For, although the King had arrived home the night before, he had neglected to call on her that evening. Guinevere at first guessed that he was too fatigued for a night with her, but when it was long past midnight and His Majesty had not come this evening either, the Queen could not help but wonder.

And hope. Guinevere knew it was a twisted view, but in her mind she felt that if the King were also engaged in an extramarital affair, she could feel less guilty for conducting the interests of her own heart.

"I have been ill of late, Milord," Guinevere excused herself to Lancelot's inquisitive eyes. The timing had turned out most favorably, with the effects of the dumbcane wearing off just as the knights arrived home. Lancelot had never heard her speak as Queen, and now this character, this imagined 'Lady Morgana' had a sore throat, an excuse for not having met Lancelot. "You must believe I would have come to you otherwise."

Lancelot took Guinevere's hands and looked intently into her face. "Promise me, Milady," he asked, "that you shall not repeat this separation."

Guinevere shook her head rapidly. "I am sorry," she whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady and her eyes clear. "I am sorry."

"Answer me," Lancelot demanded softly. "Tell me the truth."

Guinevere swallowed. "Of course," she breathed, reaching to stroke the side of Lancelot's face, which yielded to her touch. "I am yours, Milord."

The knight let out a sigh of relief, and tilted up Guinevere's chin, leaning in to meet her.

"I am so sorry," Guinevere repeated, feeling the graze of his lips against her mouth. "So very, very sorry."


	30. Chapter 30

WiltingDaisies94: The moment has arrived at last... no words... no warnings... read on!

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><p><span>Chapter 30<span>

"Are you certain this is permissible?" Morgana whispered, sneaking a fiftieth glance over her shoulder.

Arthur grinned down at her from the top of the wall. "Of course not," he replied mischievously. "But we shall do it nonetheless!"

Morgana shook her head, at once charmed by his antics and disapproving. "Be careful!" she called after him as he disappeared over the wall. She smiled in spite of herself and hurried around to the front of the stables.

It was ridiculous, she knew, but utterly endearing. Leon's plan was to go out for a midnight ride, by "borrowing" horses from the King's stable. Morgana knew it was wrong, but could hardly refuse his eager persuasion.

She loved him, after all.

Morgana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling bashfully. It felt so wonderful to think it, recognize it; she'd been floating on air since the week before, after hearing Leon utter those very words. The dark demon of reality had been thrust out of her mind, and Morgana glowed in the light of fantasy.

The wooden gates of the stable were pushed open from inside, and Arthur walked out, two horses caught by the reigns following him. His smile went from ear to ear at his successful theft.

"Your mare, Milady." Arthur handed her the reigns with a flourish.

Morgana's eyes widened - she recognized Kit immediately. "The Queen's horse?" she objected in a hurried whisper. "I cannot! Suppose we should be discovered?"

Arthur tossed his head imperiously. "Nonsense! All the world is asleep, who is there to find us?" He took her hand and kissed it gently. "Come with me, love," he entreated irresistibly.

Morgana could not refuse; he was adorable in his impishness, a child enjoying his tricks and begging a companion to join in his fun. "Very well," she conceded, moving across Arthur to take the horse.

Of course, Kit recognized Morgana's scent immediately. The horse whinnied happily and gave Morgana their customary greeting: Kit placed her nose in Morgana's palm and bent her front knees forward, a horse's curtsy.

Arthur watched, puzzled. "Did that horse just bow to you?"

Morgana tried to affect nonchalance. "Do you think she did? Then I suppose it would be awfully rude not to reply." Curtsying to Kit, and giving her two pats on the nose, as was their longstanding tradition, Morgana tried to make it seem spontaneous. Turning away from Arthur, she placed her foot in the stirrup and slung her leg over the horse's side.

Arthur shook his head at the bizarreness of it all and mounted his stallion. "We sh-" he stopped as he looked over at Morgana.

"Hm?" she asked, checking her reigns. "What is it, Leon?" She glanced at Arthur, who was trying not to stare at her.

Arthur cleared his throat. "You ride… Milady… rides…" he tried to ask, but it was too awkward to find the words in the affirmative. "You do not ride sidesaddle, Milady?"

Morgana gasped inwardly as she remembered the noblewoman she was pretending to be; ladies rode sidesaddle. But it was too late as she glanced down, realizing that she was seated astride, as men and servants rode.

Her heart thumped away in her chest, and her brain worked fiercely. "My Lord must know," she said, and with all the terror being held back in her throat, her voice came out remarkably clearly, "that I have no brothers. My father had always wanted a male heir, but my beloved mother died before she produced a son. Father was devastated," Morgana fabricated, "and he never married again."

Arthur was perplexed, still trying not to glance at her open legs straddling the horse. "That is most unfortunate, Milady, but I do not understand… I mean, why you ride… in such an unusual manner."

Morgana forced a laugh. "Having no son, Father often treated me like a boy. I was taught to ride astride long before I knew how to use a sidesaddle." She shrugged, her calm demeanor producing the desired effect on Arthur. "I had a unique childhood, Milord, but hardly a harmful one."

Arthur's shoulders relaxed, and Morgana cheered inwardly at her save. That, she reprimanded herself, had been too close for comfort; she had to pay much more attention to her little tics in the future. Surely, Morgana thought with a tremor, if Leon learned of her lowly status, she would be put to death.

"If you are uncomfortable I can ride sidesaddle," Morgana offered, knowing full well that she had no idea how to, "but that would delay our ride, as I would prefer a saddle for side-riding, and I would hate to send you back into the stables to fetch –"

"No need," Arthur replied, flicking a hand impatiently, eager to begin their ride. He recognized that most of what he enjoyed about Juliana had to do with her distinct and unusual qualities.

As he adjusted himself atop his stallion, Arthur settled in his mind that Juliana was from Carmelide. It was impossible that she had lived her whole life in Camelot and he had never noticed. Furthermore, Arthur could not match her background to that of any noble in Camelot: only child, mother dead at eight years, militaristic father. And she'd appeared as if from the air… yes, Arthur was certain that she was from Carmelide.

Arthur kicked his stallion into motion, matching Juliana's pace. She smiled at him engagingly, and his masculine pride roared. He had to find out who she was, he knew. Of course, that was easier thought than done, as the Carmelidean ambassadors had returned home already. And Arthur would be damned before he asked his wife.

"Come Milord!" Morgana cried, spurring Kit onwards, knowing instinctively where to nudge the mare to speed her pace, a trick Guinevere had never quite picked up. "Is that the fastest your horse can carry you?"

Arthur, sufficiently roused from his resolve by his spirit of competition, urged his stallion forward. "Ha!" he tossed over at Morgana. "Though I hate to trample your hopes, I imagine little difficulty outriding you, Milady."

"Then I fear you are soon to acquire a bruised imagination!" Morgana called back, and Kit pulled ahead.

The king and the maid raced over the hills beside Camelot, spurring on their horses with enthusiasm. The full moon glinted coldly, glowing fiercely down from the sky, dulling the easy smattering of stars. The winter was approaching quickly, and the chill wind rushed into the faces of the two riders, pinkening their cheeks.

Morgana's hair flew out behind her, black waves streaming in the strong wind; she knew it would be a mess when she slowed down, but for the moment it was completely unimportant. Her body moved with Kit's rhythm, and she felt light as a feather, flying over the land. She let out a delighted laugh.

Arthur looked over at his companion and let out a bark of laughter himself. The ground rode up to meet them, and Arthur could hear his horse's excited breathing matching his own.

Pulling ahead, Morgana veered the course to the left. She had no idea where she was going; she rarely had time to leave the castle, and when she did Lily was always her guide. But thinking about direction would cost her speed, and Morgana turned her attention back to the ground.

"Watch the fence!" Arthur called to her, bobbing his head at the upcoming structure.

"We jump it!" Morgana hollered back over the rushing wind. "Unless you are afraid?"

"Never!"

Arthur practically lifted himself out of the saddle, spurring his stallion on, riding faster, faster. The fence was unevenly built, and he came up against the higher end. "Come on," he hissed in the horse's ear, and with a grunt, he lifted the reigns and the horse jumped.

_C_r_ack!_

One of the stallion's back legs caught on the fence, and it stumbled to the side. As Morgana flew by on Kit, Arthur lost his balance and fell to the ground, rolling from the momentum.

"Leon!" Morgana tugged sharply at the reigns, stopping Kit in her tracks. The mare whinnied irritably at the rough treatment, turning around and cantering back to the fence. "Leon!" Morgana jumped down from the saddle and hurried over to where the King had fallen.

Arthur was on his hands and knees, face down, shaken and bruised but otherwise uninjured; he'd been lucky. "I am well," he muttered incomprehensibly, "I am fine, undamaged, no trouble."

Morgana knelt beside him. "Are you hurt, Leon?"

"Mmf," Arthur grunted, pain shooting through his back. "No, nothing out of place. Just an unfortunate fall." He grimaced at the ground. "I will live to outride you yet, Milady."

The stallion snorted in the background, regaining its breath, but still on its feet. The horse's nose was downturned and it stamped its hooves on the ground agitatedly.

Morgana giggled. "Look, he is repenting."

Arthur shook his head. "I know repentance when I see it, and _that_ is triumph. He is mocking me."

"Ah," Morgana said, raising her eyebrows. "I see. No wounded flesh, only wounded pride. Come along then, Milord, on your feet." She slipped her arm around his waist and Arthur slung his arm around her shoulder.

"Thank you, Juliana," Arthur breathed, looking down as he brushed off his clothes. "Would you fetch that miserable creature for me?"

Morgana chuckled and clucked her tongue at the stallion; Kit's ears pricked up at the sound and she moseyed over as well. The two horses sniffed at each other, jostling gently, and Morgana had to untangle the reigns before she could lead them over.

"Seems these two have as much a fondness for competition as we do," she commented. "Well, Leon –"

The name died on her tongue as Arthur turned to face her. Morgana's mouth tumbled open and she stared, wide-eyed, into the face of the King.

It took Arthur a split second to realize he was no longer wearing his mask. Eyes darting across the ground, he saw the gold glinting condemningly in the moonlight, a few meters from where he'd fallen. Slowly he looked back at Morgana, who hadn't moved.

"Juliana," he tried, stepping toward her.

"No..." she breathed, shaking her head, "no, no, s-stay where y-you are."

"Please, Juliana, listen to me," Arthur begged, unsettled by her alarm and angry at his own forgetfulness.

"No," Morgana whispered, the sound of walls crashing down echoing in her ears. "No!" Tears threatened in her eyes and she dropped the stallion's reigns instantly. "How could you?" she threw heartbrokenly, disbelievingly, at Arthur, swinging herself up into the saddle, no longer caring how she rode. Wrenching Kit furiously in the other direction, Morgana kicked her flanks and galloped away.

"Juliana, wait!" Arthur cried, watching helplessly as Morgana rode hastily away. "Damnation!" Hurrying his bruised body over to the stallion, Arthur forced himself to mount and rushed after her.


	31. Chapter 31

WiltingDaisies94: Thank you to everyone for your reviews last chapter - I'm glad you all enjoyed Arthur's reveal.

Morgana on the other hand... well... not as much...

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><p><span>Chapter 31<span>

No, no, no!

Morgana's head was splitting in two; she rushed blindly through the palace corridors, tears blurring her sight, the voluminous gown she'd taken from her mistress weighing her down.

Her throat had long since closed up in anguish; it was really remarkable that she continued to run with so little air entering her lungs. Morgana's hands clenched her skirts in a viselike grip, keeping them out from underfoot, running, running.

He was the King!

The King, the Mighty, Royal, King of Camelot, the King, _the_ King of Camelot!

She could hardly wrap her head around what she'd seen, wanting to resist with all her willpower. But she could not deny who it was had been staring back at her, golden hair and blue eyes and unmistakable nobility. Him, His Majesty, His Highness – she had been out with the King!

Not Leon, no knight or noble, but the king himself, the one man with the absolute power to weaken her knees not only from love but with an executioner's sentence.

Leon, Leon, it pumped through her head, a desperate plea for reconciliation, for all this to have been a night fright and no more. Any moment she would awaken in her small room, any moment, any moment!

Morgana turned round another the corner, exhausted and desperate. He couldn't still be chasing her, could he? No, she'd ridden with the wind beneath Kit's hooves, and she'd entered the palace through a servant's door well hidden from the unaware. He would not find her, not tonight.

Not ever again.

He would have her head, she knew. Morgana shuddered, suddenly gasping for air, her mouth opening. She could never go back to him, now that the illusion was shattered, and the shards gleefully assaulted her, clawing at her eyes and ears; she was a servant girl, a maid.

And he was the King of Camelot.

Not Leon. Not Lord Leon or even Sir Leon.

Arthur Pendragon.

King Arthur Pendragon.

She was as good as dead if he ever discovered her identity. A maid playing at nobility, dabbling with the heart of His Supreme Majesty… A fresh wave of tears broke free from Morgana's eyes.

There was a hollow ache in her chest, and not one created by her sudden display of athletic skill. She felt little creatures chipping away at her heart with tiny pickaxes, and the walls that once lent her protection were now collapsed to dust and pillars of rubble.

Because she had loved him. Or thought she had, loved the man she'd come to know over their time together. This imaginary Leon character, she could have loved him happily until the end of her days, envying much less the world around her as she clung to that feeling.

But she heard it now, ripped out from beneath her, a thousand fingernails scratching against stone corridors. A hundred maids scrubbing at the floors, seeking perfection, always futile but somehow important. Oh Gods, Morgana thought, shaking her head ferociously, oh Gods.

Perhaps the most awful thought she'd ever had crossed her mind just then:

She had to tell Guinevere.

Her mistress deserved to know that this was the man she'd married, that this was why her husband did not show her the love Morgana knew Guinevere deserved. _She_ was why.

Stupid, foolish girl! Morgana berated herself. Standing in the way of your mistress's happiness, impeding the success of her marriage, all for your own pleasures. (Though a small voice in the back of her head protested that she hadn't known who Leon – Arthur – was, it was crushed by the overwhelming sensation of guilt).

Trembling and ashamed, Morgana set herself towards her mistress's chambers. From their fleet flight her feet had slowed to a moderate crawl, and in hesitation and exhaustion Morgana slumped against a palace wall; tearing off her mask, and throwing it to the ground, she began to sob.

Morgana knew she should not keep this disaster a secret, that she had to tell Guinevere the truth… and she might have done precisely that, had it been her mistress's arms that encircled her at that moment.

But they were not.

They were Lily's.

"Lily," Morgana choked out, surprised and trying to hide her tears, "I did not… I mean, see you, I… just some nonsense–"

"Shh," Lily shushed, rocking Morgana against her. "Hush, dear. Leave be until you have finished. Afterwards we will have a talk." The scullery maid stroked Morgana's hair, murmuring comfortingly as her friend cried. "Troubles are always easier to bear when shared, you know."

Morgana nodded mutely, drained from her crying, and she lifted a shaking hand to her face, wiping her cheeks. "I-i-it is a lot to tell," she stammered, hiccupping a little.

Lily smiled gently. "Well perhaps you should start at the beginning, then, hm?"

And Morgana did. She poured the whole story out to Lily in between waves of shudders and tears. From the masque on through the accidental reveal of the king, Morgana narrated; Lily listened attentively, nodding from time to time.

"…and I cannot do it again, I can never, _never_ see him again," Morgana concluded. "Because if I do… if I do…" she shook her head and her voice dropped to an indistinct, hollow whisper. "… I will never be able to pick up the wreckage of my spirit."

Lily left out a huff of air. "Well…" she forced a smile. "That is quite a tale."

"You will not tell anyone, will you?" Morgana asked hurriedly, instantly alarmed. "Oh please Lily, you cannot, the damage it could do –"

"Calm yourself, Morgana," Lily soothed. "Of course I would not tell. I have never been much in the business of harming my friends." She stood up and held out her hands to Morgana. "Come along; let us get you back to your chamber. I will build you a warm fire, bring you a soft nightgown, and then we can decide on a strategy. How does that sound?"

Morgana took Lily's hands, and allowed herself to be pulled unsteadily to her feet. Drawing a shaky breath, Morgana placed an arm around Lily's waist and dutifully followed her friend, still shaking her head from side to side.

And as the two maids disappeared down the hall, Morgana's disregarded mask glinted pathetically in the cold, triumphant moonlight, left behind as the last remnant of loving fantasy.


	32. Chapter 32

WiltingDaisies94: Hello again everyone! Thank you very much for your wonderful reviews and expressions of curiosity - I attempt to keep you all on your toes, and I am glad it's working :)

I just finished watching the last season of Merlin... and I will try not spoil anything, but I just want to say... how was that an acceptable ending? Especially for Morgana! All that evil and grandiose cunning and that was the best they could come up with? Ugh.

So, to make it up to those of you who, like me, were rather disappointed by the Merlin finale, please have an early installment of MAM. This chapter was one of my favorites to write, and many of the concerns/interests reviewers mentioned come up in it, so please enjoy!

_Italics_ for flashback.

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><p><span>Chapter 32<span>

Arthur was exceedingly morose that morning; Guinevere was feeling fantastic. The two sat across the long table from each other, eating their breakfast in moderate silence, though for utterly different reasons.

Guinevere had spent the night out with Lancelot, and was absolutely weightless from it. She loved his company, his voice, his handsome face, his laugh, and for the first time in months she had been able to speak with him. She smiled across the table, looking right through her husband. "It is such a lovely morning," she said happily, the buttered slice of bread in her hand completely forgotten.

In contrast, Arthur had not had a wink of sleep; he'd stayed up half the night searching for Juliana, and the other half pacing up and down in his chambers like a caged beast. He had an exhausted crease etched across his forehead, and he ate without paying the least attention to what went into his mouth. He felt wretched, and Merlin had been irritating him all morning. His Majesty was _not_ feeling fine, but had no interest in sharing why with his manservant. Unsurprisingly, the urge to smack Merlin had gotten stronger and stronger as the morning slogged forward. "The clouds hint of rain later on," Arthur answered gloomily.

And then there was Morgana, who was trying to make herself as scarce and inconspicuous as possible, while inwardly cursing Lily to the grave for talking her into this.

_"He is only a man, and that is something you must remember," Lily counseled. "You have all these romantic notions built up in your head, Morgana; this wonderful, flawless person who has taken your heart and broken it. But no more – it is time for you to meet in daylight."_

_ Morgana shook her head vehemently. "Are you mad, Lily? Do you know what the King would do to me if he discovered wh-"_

_ "I do not mean direct confrontation," Lily interrupted, brushing off Morgana's assumption. "Only you will recognize him. You say he does not know you as a maid?"_

_ "Of course not."_

_ "Then that is how you must go – as a maid. Listen here," Lily advised. "Tomorrow morning, you will ask Meryl to let you take her job serving breakfast. Trade her for washing, or some such thing she will prefer. And as you work, observe the King. See him as a man, as the person he really is."_

_ "And how will that help me?" Morgana protested weakly. _

_ Lily patted her hand. "It will bring you peace. You have been living a beautiful lie, my friend, this dream between you and the nobleman. But Leon does not exist, Morgana. He is a character, a person no more substantial than a veil, one which His Majesty has been hiding behind." She raised her eyebrows. "You must disillusion yourself; dismiss the notion of the King as the one you loved. It is not him, Morgana. It never was."_

But he looked awfully similar. Morgana averted her eyes; Lily had taken advantage of her vulnerability to force her into this position, and now all she wanted was to escape. Every muscle in her body was tensed, and her gaze was trained forward; Morgana was ready to bound away at the least opportunity.

"Psst!"

A hiss from a servant farther along the wall caught Morgana's attention and she shook herself out of her rigid posture; she hadn't realized it, but her foot was beginning to prickle.

The servant signaled that a goblet needed refilling, and then nodded his head towards the King. Morgana swallowed convulsively, fighting the urge to shake her head or bolt.

He couldn't possibly recognize her, not dressed so plainly and with her hair tucked up. He would not make her speak, would he? No… no, all she needed to do was fill his goblet and then return… disappear against the stone wall… he couldn't possibly recognize her, could he?

Movements stiff precisely when she needed them to be most natural, Morgana went forward, hearing the echo of her sensible shoes ripple from the stone floor to the high ceilings. Since neither royal was speaking, she fancied herself a disruption sure to capture all their attention.

Though the King noticed nothing, Morgana was freakishly aware of the closing distance between them. Her steps stopped right by the table, and mutely she reached for the decanter; her hip was just level with the seated king's mid-chest. Morgana looked to Guinevere, hoping she might have a smile or friendly nod of reassurance, but her mistress simply gazed past her.

Moving her body a quarter turn to the left, the farthest possible angle from which she could reach the King's goblet, Morgana tilted the decanter. Red wine flowed into the waiting cup, burbling cheerily all the way.

So far neither king nor queen had said anything to her, and Morgana began breathing easier. When the goblet was full she pulled back, replacing the decanter on the tabletop with a gentle thud.

"Thank you," Arthur tossed distractedly in her direction, his eyes flickering upwards for an instant.

Morgana curtsied, heart thumping in panic, knowing she had to respond. "Your Majesty is most welcome," she murmured in the most silent whisper of a voice ever made audible.

But for all her attempts to keep her face blank, Morgana's voice betrayed the woman whose heart had been torn in half. And it was that aching restraint in her tone that struck Arthur, who turned his head, eyebrows scrunched in curiosity. He looked up at Morgana, who was retreating slowly, respectfully backwards, eyes cast down to the floor.

"Wait," he called, beckoning the maid back over.

Morgana froze, her heart stopping, damning Lily to hell and a long forever of torment and suffering.

Fortunately for her, Guinevere had wakened from her reverie. Confused at seeing the king speaking to her maid, the Queen asked, "Milord – Arthur – what is the matter?"

Before Arthur could reply, the hall doors opened and a servant boy entered. "Majesties," he said, bowing from the waist.

Arthur's gaze moved away from Morgana. "You may speak," he granted, sounding at once like himself again. "What have you?"

The boy walked over to the table, directing himself towards Guinevere's side. "A query for Her Majesty," he replied, blushing a little as he approached the beautiful queen. "If she will allow it."

Guinevere smiled dazzlingly. "Of course, my dear," she said kindly, all the goodwill produced by an evening with her love glittering through her voice. "What is it you desire?"

The boy fumbled with something behind his back. "One of the servants found this in the hallway this morning. It was so lovely, he thought it best returned, and," he finished, "wondered if perhaps it belonged to Your Majesty?" The boy revealed what he was clutching, holding it out for Guinevere's inspection.

It was Morgana's mask, abandoned by the maid the night before.

Morgana, Arthur, and Guinevere all recognized it, and had three completely divergent reactions.

Morgana, unable to help herself, gasped, a fresh wave of fear washing over her. All her irrational worry that the King would find her out surfaced in an instant, jamming her thoughts and freezing her blood. She barely managed to keep her mouth from dangling open, and said nothing.

Arthur, whose eyes somehow managed to both widen and narrow at the same time, became immediately rigid, and sharply bit out, "Where did you find that?"

And Guinevere, for whom the masque had been months ago, who could not have remembered with less distinction what it was Morgana had worn (despite having picked the outfit herself), laughed sweetly and replied, "Why yes, that is mine; how thoughtful of you to return it!"

Fixing his eyes on his wife for the first time all morning, Arthur schooled his voice into calmness, though his eyes burned. "This mask is yours?" he asked, unconsciously drumming his fingers along his thigh.

Guinevere smiled. "Of course, it is Carmelidean craftsmanship. I would recognize such fine work anywhere."

"But are you certain it belongs to you?" Arthur continued. "Not one of your entourage from Carmelide? Perhaps a friend who attended the masque before the wedding? Another lady or dame?"

"I do promise it is mine." Guinevere graced him with a patronizing look. "Does Your Majesty not trust me to recognize the contents of my own wardrobe?"

"Of course not." Arthur backed away from the line of inquiry immediately. "I merely thought… I might have sworn… that I recognized the mask as belonging to another…" he shook his head, too frustrated to consider the implications of this new information. "Please, forgive my nonsense; I believe the light is playing tricks on my eyes."

"Perhaps we can remedy that," Guinevere replied, still in an excellent mood and glad to be so. "Let us close the curtains; that sunlight is awfully powerful. Mor?" She called to her maid, and nodded her head toward the window. "If you would?"

And Morgana, who had not moved from the spot, breathed a relieved sigh and turned her back on the King, endlessly glad to do as her mistress asked.


	33. Chapter 33

WiltingDaisies94: Welcome back to another chapter in the lives of Morgana, Arthur, Gwen, and Lancelot; a rather ironic introduction, as not a single on of them makes an appearance in this chapter.

Now, in response to some reviews:

1. Morgana now knows that Leon is Arthur - Arthur does _not_ know that Morgana is Juliana, and only knows that the mask was made in Carmelide and technically _belongs_ to Gwen. This does not mean he thinks Juliana is Gwen - obviously, he's married to Gwen, he knows her voice and they've slept together (awkwardly), Arthur would have recognized by now if she were Juliana.

2. As to when the reveals will happen... PATIENCE. You (and the characters) have got a whole bunch more chapters of angst and discomfort to go through before the truth comes spilling out. But I promise it will be worth the wait - the scenes are mostly written, but sequence matters!

Now, after the tensions of last chapter, we shall revert to someone else having love problems, someone I love dearly and whose treatment at the end of the show made me furious ... so enjoy! :)

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><p><span>Chapter 33<span>

"It is a most confusing state of things, Merlin." Gwaine shook his hair out of his face and dropped one eye shut, taking careful aim with his bow. "I have never come across this problem before." He released the arrow, watching it sail across the practice field and lodge in the upper right hand corner of the target.

Merlin handed him another. "Yes," he said with an ironic smile, "confusion seems to be an increasingly prevalent feeling among Arthur's knights." He stepped back as Gwaine knocked the arrow, having learned to move after many years of working for the king. "Of what sort is your particular ailment?"

Gwaine narrowed his eyes. "Female."

Merlin chuckled. "Well I would be guilty of terrible falsehood if I said that was a new complaint… but somehow it is not one I ever expected to hear from you."

Gwaine took another shot, and this one was very off-center, nearly missing the target completely. "Damn!" he hissed. "Another!"

Merlin shook his head in refusal. "Enough for now." He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at Gwaine. "First I think it best you tell me what has your aim in such a twisted mess. You were in a perfectly good humor when we returned from Morswood. What can possibly have changed since then?"

Gwaine threw his bow down in disgust and turned to face Merlin. "It was her." He tossed his hair out of his eyes, and began to pace up and down in front of Merlin. "That girl."

Merlin eyed the knight with perfect calmness; it was his eternal duty to work out their lady troubles – Lancelot, Gwaine, Arthur. "Specification is highly encouraged," he prompted dryly.

His brow knotting in frustration, Gwaine replied tersely, "Lily."

Merlin felt an unexpected nudge of protestation in his gut. "The m-maid?" he asked, stumbling over the words. "The scullery maid?"

"The very same." Gwaine was far too wrapped up in himself to notice.

Merlin frowned. "For what reason are you caught on her? Camelot is full of beautiful women, as you must know; in fact, better than any other knight, if I had a guess. Why let this one girl bother you?"

"Because she refuses to acknowledge my charm!" Gwaine pounded one fist into the other, grinding his teeth together. "She is a tempting, cruel little tease, and glories in being exactly that!"

Merlin, who in fact had a rather high opinion of Lily, was surprised at Gwaine's vehemence. He had, of course, heard the knight speak of his various conquests before, but for a reason Merlin could not precisely pinpoint, he did not like the coarseness of Gwaine's words applied to Lily.

But, patiently as ever, Merlin asked, "What happened, Gwaine?"

"Just this…"

_Gwaine entered the armory; he was in the mood for some target practice and searching for a bow, as his own had been crushed in the battle at Morswood. Though he'd commissioned a new one the day after that knights returned, the craftsman was being terribly sluggish with his work. But Gwaine, the ever unperturbed soul he was, could not be bothered to take the man to task. He knew the bow would eventually be finished; he was in no particular rush. _

_ And it appeared that attitude had served him well. As Gwaine entered the main drag of the armory, he noted with pleasure that he was not alone. Standing in front of a long wall of broadswords, her arms crossed impatiently over her chest, was the same pretty maid who had been so unkind to his ear the last time they'd met._

_ "Good afternoon, Lily," he greeted, his classic good-humored smile gracing his handsome features._

_ The maid whirled around in surprise. "Sir Gwaine," she said, hands coming to rest on her slim waist, "returned already?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "How time hurries when one wishes it would halt."_

_ Gwaine laughed easily. "Peace, Lily," he replied, "why hide the truth behind your embellished scorn, when it has been so long apparent? Deny as you like, you know you find me appealing, and after all," he finished with the perfect confidence so natural to him, "what woman could blame you?"_

_ Lily rolled her eyes, offering him a contemptuous smile. "Sir Gwaine, as flattering as your projection of your feelings onto me is, I would ask that you not make such a fool of yourself in the name of expression. It hardly suits a knight of Camelot." _

_ Said knight crossed his arms; if she baited, he would bite. "Projection?" Gwaine asked innocently, willing her to respond._

_ "Certainly," Lily explained, walking closer to Gwaine as she spoke. "You see, I believe that you, Sir Gwaine, are in fact, hopelessly attracted to me. And because you are a knight, and an arrogant one at that," she said, stressing the word 'arrogant', "the idea that I might not be interested in return absolutely paralyzes your swollen pride. Therefore," she concluded, "you must convince yourself that I am merely playing at my dislike to soothe that inner worry."_

_ Gwaine took these accusations with surprising calm. "And yet," he answered smoothly, "for all that theorizing, you have hardly taken it upon yourself to dispel my supposed 'notions'." He tossed his head. "And that leads me to the conclusion that you, my dear, do not do so, because you cannot. Admit it – you like me."_

_ "Admit that you want me to admit I like you so you feel assured enough to admit you like me," she retorted._

_ Gwaine laughed. "Perhaps I am not the one suffering from delusions of pride, then. Camelot is filled with beautiful women, of high and low birth, in every tavern and palace chamber there is to be found." He smirked in an unfairly attractive way. "What makes you think I would shower you with special attention?"_

_ Lily's smile turned positively devious. "Because," she said, moving forward, until she was centimeters from Gwaine's face, and her arms snaked up his chest, "you like me very, very... close." She breathed the word at the knight, her eyes flicking upwards. "Because when I am near," she said, triumphant as her voice dropped to a sensual whisper, "you can see the intent behind my eyes."_

"And then she left!" Gwaine fumed, the telling of his morning's trouble irritating him all over again. "After all that bantering and taunting, she smiled like a fiend and turned her back on me!"

Merlin, who had listened intently, was still recovering from his initial surprise. He had known Lily for as long as she had been in Camelot, and never once had she spoken to him the way Gwaine claimed. She was sweet, and even though Merlin occasionally made a fool of himself in front of her, she had never seriously ridiculed him for it. He had always thought of her as rational, like him.

But this girl – woman – that Gwaine was describing, sounded nothing like the Lily he knew. All that magnetism and allure… certainly Lily was a confident person, but this mischievous, daring personality that Gwaine seemed to have uncovered was an entirely new figure.

The manservant turned to look at the agitated knight, who was waiting on a response. "I think," Merlin said slowly, with an internal regret that thoroughly disturbed him, "she likes you, Gwaine."


	34. Chapter 34

WiltingDaisies94: More Merlin! Two chapters in a row with our beloved boy. What would Arthur do without him?

Anyway, our King is now without his Lady Juliana, and still oblivious to her identity. What's a good detective to do?

If you guessed "research", give yourself a cookie (gold stars also optional). Hope you enjoy!

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><p><span>Chapter 34<span>

"Here are the records you asked for, Sire." Merlin placed the scroll on the table and stood back expectantly. "And the keeper humbly asks that you return them in the same condition this time."

Arthur scowled. "If you are referring to the Scrolls of Acanthian," he replied testily, "that was only once, and you knew I was drunk."

Merlin hid a grin. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Arthur's nostrils flared. "Of course not."

Merlin put his hands on the back of the king's chair and peeked over Arthur's broad shoulder. "The attendance record for your wedding?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "What would you want with that?"

Arthur's head rotated slowly over his shoulder until he was eyeing Merlin in a manner that would have made a lesser man cringe. "I believe that is none of your business, Merlin," he said pointedly, over-enunciating as he did when he was irritated. "Now off with you."

Merlin's face adopted an innocent look, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. "I only thought I might be of some help," he replied, smiling his infuriating Merlin smile. "No need to call the guards on your devoted servant."

Arthur snorted. "You are as much a devoted servant as I am a goddamned mule."

"You need not despair in that respect, Majesty," Merlin assured him. "I think you are a perfect goddamned ass."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Get. Out. Merlin."

Hardly quivering in his boots, the manservant bowed extravagantly. "I do most humbly beg Your Majesty's pardon."

Arthur rolled his eyes heavenward. "Of course you do."

As soon as Merlin had left the chamber, Arthur relaxed. Breathing in relief, for the first time in what felt like days, he hurried back to the scroll. He tried to sit and read, but there was a jumpiness in his chest that would not allow him to; he eventually kicked his chair out behind him and settled for leaning agitatedly against the table.

It had been just over a week since his disastrous ride with the Lady Juliana, and Arthur could not recall ever spending a more miserable nine days. The look on her face, even from behind her mask, was terrible, imprinted in Arthur's mind for eternity. The shock and betrayal replacing her delight in an instant… it dragged at the king's heartstrings like a leaden weight.

Arthur poured over the scroll, scrutinizing each name carefully. So many people had been present for his marriage; had it seemed that large at the time? He tried to remember. Ambassadors and knights, diplomats and nobles from both Camelot and Carmelide – how had the Great Hall held all of them?

The records were separated into two lists, guests from Camelot and from Carmelide. Arthur shifted the scroll down to the section on Carmelide, his eyes skipping over the men, who easily represented the majority.

And he scanned, like a dog desperate to pick up a scent, reading over the printed letters so carefully that they began to squirm under his eyes. Was it possible that the Queen had brought all these women along with her?

When Arthur had finished the entire record and found no Lady Juliana, he gritted his teeth in frustration. Then, grabbing his seat and flopping down into it, he ran a hand over his face and began to review the names again. Twice, thrice, Arthur lost count as he continued to search and find nothing.

He wasn't mad, was he? It was impossible he had dreamed the Lady up; he had spoken to her, touched her, kissed her. One couldn't kiss a phantom, could one? It was a trait Arthur had loved, how real Juliana was, and like a fiend Irony was closing its claws around that belief. Arthur's head sunk to the tabletop at the futility of it all.

It was so much easier to wish it all away, to think only on the beauty of his time with Juliana. There was a sick feeling of self-detestation that filled his stomach, and it was something Arthur was not used to.

What was he? The mirror in his mind turned against him as he closed his eyes, and Arthur flinched as he observed himself. He had never expected his affections to work this way; married to one woman, in love with another. The one he was married to might as well have been a stranger…which was _probably_ his fault. And the one he was in love with thought he was the lowest scum to ever crawl the earth…which was _certainly_ his fault.

But, a voice argued, was it all his choice to begin with? Men and women were made to fall in love, to marry. Was it so much his fault that these two things had happened to him with two different ladies?

And yet, Arthur had a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that decried him as guilty, culpable without exception. How he had tricked and hurt the Lady Juliana… how Queen Guinevere would feel should she ever find out… what a coward he had been, a pathetic excuse for a gentleman and a king…

"Sire?"

Arthur shook his head groggily and felt the wood of the table rub against his cheek. Groaning as he woke up, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. "Leave me be," he grumbled, too depressed to look up.

The king felt a hand on his shoulder. "Come along, Majesty," Merlin's voice murmured soothingly. "It is a long while you have been sleeping; I left over three hours ago." The shuffle of the scroll being rolled up reached Arthur's ears. "How many times have you read through this poor record?"

Arthur groaned and "mmph"ed incoherently, dragging himself into a sitting position from which he looked at his manservant despondently, "Help me, Merlin," he said softly, cobwebs in his voice.

And Merlin, who had been long expecting his master to confide in him about what was making him so miserable, put on his most sympathetic face and leaned against the table. "At your service, Majesty."

Arthur shook his head. "What can I do for the Queen, Merlin?"

"The Queen?" That was not in the least what Merlin had been expecting. "For what purpose? I had not thought Her Majesty unhappy."

Arthur frowned. "No, but if she were pleased it is entirely unrelated to my actions towards her." He looked guiltily at his servant. "I have been a sorry husband to Guinevere, and she has born it quite without complaint."

Merlin shrugged. "I had noticed your estrangement," he admitted, "but it did not strike me as such that I could approach you."

"How I have treated her…" Arthur tried to say, but the guilt was crushing, "I hardly know what has overcome me, how I dared. What with the monster in Morswood and the Queen's illness…"

Merlin nodded understandingly. "I am sure the Queen understands the difficulty of your position."

"That hardly justifies it, Merlin." Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I owe Guinevere an apology, though she is too polite to demand it."

Merlin pondered for a bit. "Perhaps you could take Her Majesty to the lake, Sire. It is a beautiful place, and peaceful; you would have time to talk, away from the politics and stresses of the city."

Arthur hadn't thought of that. He'd been busy picturing an extravagant signal of goodwill, a presentation of jewels or a new horse. Going to the lake was the sort of simple-yet-sweet gesture he would have made towards Juliana – it hardly crossed his mind when he thought of the Queen.

And yet, that was his problem, wasn't it? He hadn't considered that he needed to act towards his wife the way he did towards the woman he loved. Arthur knew he couldn't have Juliana; he couldn't find her, and even if he stumbled across her somehow, she would never forgive him.

So it had to be Guinevere. Arthur nodded to himself, accepting the truth with stunning finality. He was a married man, and he had been avoiding that fact with every bit of himself; no wonder the Queen seemed so isolated from him.

"That is an excellent idea, Merlin," he finally replied. "I shall discuss it with Her Majesty tomorrow at breakfast."

Smiling at the resolve in the king's tone, Merlin folded his arms. "Shall we get you to bed now, Majesty?"

"I think so." As Arthur stood he felt a small part of his guilt eased, while simultaneously a hollow cavity opened in his chest. He disappeared behind the dressing screen to change into his nightclothes and glanced up at the ceiling, half hoping and half dreading that he would dream about Juliana again tonight.


	35. Chapter 35

WiltingDaisies94: Yes, I know, I'm torturing you a bit with Arthur and Morgana... seems pretty bleak at the moment, doesn't it?

Well, if you do feel that way now, take comfort in how much you're going to hate me at the end of this chapter after spending time with Guinevere and Lancelot!

You didn't think I would let you forget about our other couple, did you? It's classic for stories like this to take opposite trajectories - while ArMor's lives suck, Gwen/Lance have to be doing dazzlingly. Sorry. Unspoken rules of literature and all that :)

And yes, **zombieleopard_,_** the Scrolls of Acanthion are most definitely Noodle Incident. Feel free to extrapolate to your heart's content.

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><p><span>Chapter 35<span>

"Hurry along!" Guinevere giggled, pulling Lancelot by the hand. The village was celebrating, some peasant festival or other, and the Queen had never seen anything like it before. Markets were hardly a foreign concept, and entertainment in the public squares of Carmelide was downright normative, but these were spectacles such as Guinevere had never before imagined.

"Oh!" she gasped in delight at a street performer who was blowing a magnificent fire from his mouth. Her grasp tightened on Lancelot's hand, admiration shining in her eyes. "How wonderful! How in the world does he make it happen?"

Lancelot had no answer for her, but fortunately the question was rhetorical; he grinned like a fool at Guinevere's rapture. "Have you nothing like this in Carmelide, Lady Morgana?" he asked.

"Certainly not." Guinevere shook her head vehemently. "Why in Ca–"

She stopped mid-sentence.

"Yes, Milady? You were saying?" Lancelot prompted.

Guinevere looked at him suspiciously, her mouth slightly open. "I never told you I was from Carmelide," she said circumspectly.

Lancelot titled his head downwards and raised his eyebrows. "Lady Morgana, I would beg you credit my intellect somewhat. If you were a citizen of Camelot, I assure you, I would be well aware." He squeezed her hand. "It were impossible I should have lived so many years in Camelot without recognizing a silvery spirit such as your own."

Curious, and very eager to avoid confirming Lancelot's very correct assumption, Guinevere asked, "Silvery? Now there is a description I have never heard. Tell me, sir, what makes my spirit 'silvery'?"

Lancelot smiled and walked along with Guinevere, past the fire-blower, and over to a stall that was selling various food items. "Silvery in the sense that you are… reflective… without ostentation… yet elegant… and precious… capable of drawing attention or blending with a crowd…" He paused, his eyes tender. "Shall I go on?"

Guinevere giggled. "Well I would not entirely object if you did, but I can imagine much better uses for that charming mouth of yours." She looked up through her eyelashes sweetly.

Lancelot's expression was heated. "Enlighten me, Milady."

The Queen was innocent as a doe as she replied, "Ask that vender for something to eat – I am utterly famished, love."

Lancelot reigned in his rather ungentlemanly thoughts and lifted Guinevere's hand for a kiss. "As Milady wishes," he said, his voice low and verging on apologetically polite. "What would take your fancy?"

"Surprise me," Guinevere answered, her eyes twinkling. "Now off with you." She reclaimed her hand and flicked it in the knight's direction, dismissing him.

Lancelot sighed indulgently and moved off to speak with the woman behind the stall. Guinevere watched him fondly, biting down on her bottom lip. The night was a cool one, and she wrapped herself more tightly in her sapphire-colored shawl.

Guinevere sighed, and her breath clouded in the air, small wisps of grey. She was seriously considering revealing her identity to Lancelot, while at once petrified at the thought. All she knew for certain was that she loathed hearing her maid's name on Lancelot's lips.

The Queen had been too preoccupied by her new life, her duties and the affairs of her heart, to spend much time with her maid. Little by little the two were falling out of their easy friendship, and into their respective positions of maid and mistress. Neither Guinevere nor Morgana was aware of it, but the two hardly spoke personally anymore. Guinevere felt the time had passed during which she could have shared her secret with Morgana; Morgana was far too ashamed to ever admit her flirtation with Arthur to Guinevere.

Guinevere desired whole-heartedly to tell Lancelot who she was, to have his acceptance and love. It hurt her to play this imaginary role, to know that she lied to him time and time again, when her one wish was to soothe away his pains. She had him fooled, tricked, the poor man, and Guinevere hated the guilt that lay heavily in her chest. Back and forth her heart and mind argued – to tell, not to tell, to tell, not to tell – it was exhausting.

Furthermore, Guinevere had an inkling that Lancelot might not be shocked at discovering her. In the few days they had spent together during her "illness" (she still smiled at the ingenuity of that plan) she had seen the change in his expression. From hesitant to curious to sympathetic to intrigued, the progression had moved forward. It was only Arthur's unfortunate return that had halted their growing relationship.

"Here you are, Milady." Lancelot had returned, and handed Guinevere half an apple, seeds hollowed out. Inside the apple was covered with a brown liquid, and the Queen took it from him with some hesitation.

Guinevere glanced at it apprehensively, her eyebrows climbing up her forehead. "What is it?" she asked, trying to keep the liquid from dripping onto her fingers.

Lancelot chuckled. "That is an apple," he informed wryly.

Guinevere narrowed her eyes. "Yes, I am aware. But what is this?" She pointed to the liquid.

"Give it a taste." Lancelot gave a half smile, enjoying Guinevere's expression.

The Queen bit the inside of her cheek and sighed. "Very well. I trust you."

"What more could I ask?"

Guinevere grimaced and opened her mouth, taking a small bite of the apple. Her eyes popped open as she swallowed and the sugary taste ran down her throat. "Oh!" she exclaimed, surprised. "Gods, what is this?"

"Do you like it, then?" Lancelot laughed at her excitement.

"It is wonderful!" Guinevere took another bite, savoring the sweetness. "What in the world is this delicious sauce called?"

Lancelot took a bite of his half, lifting his shoulders. "I have not the least idea; the widowed peasant woman makes it, and it is her secret." He licked his lips. "I taste sugar, nutmeg, perhaps something like cloves?"

Guinevere giggled at the trickle that spilled down Lancelot's chin; he'd taken a rather large bite. "Hold still," she admonished, reaching up a hand and wiping it away with a finger. "There you are."

The two locked eyes and Lancelot's gaze became suddenly more intent. Silently he took Guinevere's palm in his hand and gently licked the tip of her finger clean. He watched her as he did so, carefully reading her expression.

Guinevere was at a loss for words, fixated on Lancelot, feeling his tongue swipe neatly across her finger. It was an intimate gesture, and every bone in her body felt instantly fluid; awestruck, she blurted the first words she could successfully manage: "Her Majesty!"

Lancelot dropped her hand and spun around immediately. "What? Where?" His head whipped around, searching rapidly. "I do not see the Queen."

Guinevere cleared her throat, recovering herself, glad Lancelot was looking away. "I could have sworn I saw her," she muttered hurriedly, smoothing her skirts absentmindedly. "I suppose I was mistaken."

Lancelot breathed out audibly, and Guinevere was surprised to see something in his face when he looked at her again. It seemed like worry, but that was only the flicker of a torch passing through the night shadows; a moment later, Guinevere identified it. The look was one of disappointment.

"Tell me," she murmured, compelled to ask, "what do you think of Her Majesty?"

"The Queen?" The knight was taken aback. "Well… I…" he fumbled over his tongue, "She is… Her Majesty… I think she is a very kind and noble lady. His Majesty is very lucky to have found such a wife."

Guinevere's tone softened and she took another bite from her apple. "You approve of her, then?"

"Undoubtedly," Lancelot answered too quickly, but remembered that it did not serve to flatter one lady in front of another. Hastily he added, "For the King, of course."

Guinevere felt an odd sensation in her stomach, something in between sadness and guilt. Part of her was dying to believe that Lancelot liked her as herself, while the contrasting part knew it should never be. "I think very highly of Her Majesty," she said as nonchalantly as she could. "She is an extremely admirable woman, coming all the way from Carmelide to wed the King."

Lancelot bristled a little at the end of the thought. "I wonder sometimes if His Majesty realizes how extraordinary a lady his wife is. Perhaps if he would open his eyes and consider what a delight the Queen is…" he shook his head. "Pardon me, Lady Morgana, I should not speak ill of the King."

Guinevere's heart fluttered. "I promise His Majesty shall not hear it from me." Her apple finished, she grasped his free hand and smiled. "The Queen is blessed to have a friend in you, Lancelot."

"And I am fortunate the Queen chose to come." Lancelot lifted her hand for a kiss. "For without her wedding," he said quietly, "I should never have met you."


	36. Chapter 36

WiltingDaisies94: Laziness - Guilt - Writing - ArMor - Happiness.

In other news, you guys still have a while to go before the next reveal. I'm not talking thirty chapters, more like ten, so please sit back, relax, and trust me to steer. Lots of other goodness and badness to come first.

Enjoy!

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><p><span>Chapter 36<span>

_Where had all these trees come from? _

_Hadn't she been in the courtyard just a moment before, with a basket of clothes for washing in her arms? _

_ Morgana looked around in confusion, squinting to see through the blackness; the forest loomed around her, menacing from all directions. She had no idea where she was, what was happening, or why everything was so dark… she shuddered as the freezing wind whipped by, cutting at her cheeks and raising gooseflesh on her arms._

_ Leaves crackled as that wind came rushing through, the few that remained clinging to the tree branches whining under the beating. Over the howling, Morgana heard (at first barely, but then quite distinctly) twigs snapping somewhere behind her. _

_"Who is there?" Morgana called, her voice echoing strangely through the trees, hating the quaver in her tone. "Hello?"_

_ There was no answer, but what was most distinctly a footfall reached her ears, and Morgana jumped. As far as she could see there was nothing but trees and shrubbery, heavy bark and spindly branches. "Declare yourself!" she cried, trying to keep her breathing steady, and truly failing to do so._

_ "You know who I am, my sweet little dove," a voice in her ear whispered sinuously, and Morgana's eyes widened as she felt arms encircle her waist, pulling her against something solid._

_"No!" She pulled away, struggling as fear rose in her throat. "Please," she heard her voice whisper, "leave me be, I have lost my way, and –"_

_ "Shh, shh," the shadowed figure hushed confidently, and followed Morgana as she stepped away. "No fear, my love. I would never do you harm."_

_ My dove, my love? Morgana couldn't believe her ears. What was happening to her?_

_Morgana moved backwards into a few trickles of moonlight, hoping to see something by the scant illumination. "Who are you?" she whispered warily._

_ The figure went after her, arms outstretched. "You know exactly who is before you, love." The moonlight slowly revealed his handsome, masked face, the darkness releasing its shadowy hold, and Morgana recognized him immediately. _

_ "Leon," she breathed, relief flooding to the core of her being, a hand jumping to her chest to cover her heart. "Oh Leon, you frightened me!"_

_ Behind his mask, his eyes glinted mischievously. "You need not fear me, love. Never."_

_ Morgana sighed and held open her arms, thrilled to curl up against him, the one who she loved. He would keep her safe until they could find a way out of this eerie forest… but she could think on that later. For now did it really matter how she had so dreadfully managed to lose her way? All of Morgana's priorities shifted and became muddied, and all she wanted to think about was the handsome, strong, beloved gentleman in front of her. _

_Her body responded to his presence, and she longed for his touch on her skin, his lips on hers. __Morgana felt his arms wrap around her and pull her close in his embrace. He leaned down and his lips worked against Morgana's neck, teasing a path upwards; shivers ran down her back as she quivered beneath his warm mouth. __Morgana sighed out contentedly, her racing pulse calming. She wrapped her arms around him and tilted her head to further expose her neck to his caresses. She smiled, and let out a small moan of contentment, shuddering under his touch._

_ He moved to search out Morgana's lips and they kissed, moving together in the perfect harmony of sensuality. Morgana poured herself into that one touch, pulling into the heat of his embrace, skimming her fingers across the nape of his neck. _

_ "I love you," Morgana whispered, her eyes still closed as they broke apart. "I love you so much, my darling."_

_ "Do you?"_

_ Morgana's eyes shot open as Leon's same voice reached her ears, but from behind, despite his standing in front of her. "What was that?" Morgana's eyebrows popped up and her head jerked around._

_ Behind her, arms crossed, stood Leon. Morgana blinked in confusion – it wasn't possible he could be there! He was standing in front of her – _

_ "Who do you see?"_

_ Morgana turned around slowly, and stared in horror up into the eyes of the man now holding her. Looking down at her, mask removed, was Arthur, the undeniable King of Camelot, with a cold smile plastered across his handsome face. His arms tightened around her waist as Morgana tried to pull away._

_ "Tell me," Arthur asked in a perfectly conversational tone, holding Morgana in an iron grip, "who do you see, Juliana?"_

_ "Yes," the other Arthur, who was still wearing Leon's mask, chimed in, "who is it you love, Juliana?" _

_ "Let me go," Morgana demanded, beginning to tremble. She fought down her fear, and pushed against Arthur's chest. "Let me go!" _

_ "Why?" Arthur-as-Leon held Morgana's shoulders, leaning down to hiss in her ear. "So you can run again? Run from the truth of what you are and who you love?" He clucked his tongue. "You know what I believe? You know your own mind, Milady, but are too cowardly to own up to it."_

_ Morgana swallowed deeply. "You cannot ask it of me!" Her voice rose in desperation. "You cannot!" _

_ "I love you, I love you, I love you." The forest echoed back Morgana's words for her to hear. It wavered, surrounding Morgana, weaving in and out of the two Arthurs. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I lo–"_

_ "No!" Morgana clapped her hands over her ears, shaking her head furiously, tears spilling over her cheeks. "No! Stop, please!"_

_ "Admit it." Arthur released her waist and took her wrists in his strong grasp; Arthur-as-Leon disappeared into the air. "Admit who you love," Arthur goaded._

_ "I love you, I love you, I love you, I –"_

_ Morgana tried to pull back, but he held her fast. "I cannot do as you ask," she replied in anguish. "Never. Not to my mistress, who trusts me so much. How can you expect me to deceive myself? Am I not tortured enough?" _

_ Unfazed, Arthur picked up her chin in his hand, the horrible chanting continuing around them. "You torture yourself with your denial. Look at me!"_

_ Morgana shook her head, but her gaze was forced upwards anyway. "What do you want of me?" she begged, throat choked with her misery._

_ Arthur's blue eyes stared through to her soul and Morgana's tears stained his fingers as they trickled down her face. "Tell me who it is you love," he answered smoothly, eyes soft, a contrast to his solid grip on her chin. _

_ "I love you, I love you, I lo–"_

_ "I love you!" Morgana cried out, drained of any will to fight. "Of course I love you!"_

_ "Love who?" Arthur's impossibly harsh grip grew even tighter. "Speak my name."_

_"Arthur!" Morgana burst out, her chest heaving. "Arthur Pendragon! I love Arthur Pendragon!" Her sobs intensified, and completely emotionally drained, she collapsed on the spot –_

Only to wake, wrapped painfully in her twisted bedclothes.

Heart racing like Kit at a full gallop, Morgana stared at the ceiling, paralyzed by her nightmare. It had been more than two weeks since she'd discovered the King's secret and he had successfully invaded her dreams every night since then.

Morgana ran a hand through her hair, which was damp with sweat; the remnants of tears covered her cheeks in streaky patterns. Altogether too chilled (her fire had died down) and agitated, the maid worked to straighten out her blankets and rearrange her bedclothes. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her feet on the floor, closing her eyes.

The nightmare had thoroughly disturbed her, and Morgana rubbed her wrists gently, as if she had just had shackles removed.

She knew the truth of her dream: no matter if it was the very King of Camelot behind that mask, she loved him anyway.

She was ashamed of her falsehood, mortified at his betrayal, but Gods she would have given anything to return to his arms.

Morgana sighed and wiped her cheeks, clearing away her tears from her tired eyes. She was trapped; this would be her horrible secret until the day she died. She loved the King, her mistress's husband, a liar and unattainable lover.

With that depressing thought in mind, Morgana stood, and moved to rekindle her depleted fire.


	37. Chapter 37

WiltingDaisies94: Thanks so much to all of my reviewers, I'm glad you enjoyed last chapter's ArMor-y goodness, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter as well!

All the introduction you need:

_"Perhaps you could take Her Majesty to the lake, Sire. It is a beautiful place, and peaceful; you would have time to talk, away from the politics and stresses of the city." - _Merlin, MaM Chapter 34

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><p><span>Chapter 37<span>

The lake was exactly as Arthur remembered; it seemed that not a single leaf or blade of grass had changed its place since his last ride up. The water, gurgling like the happy laughter of a child, lapped softly against the verdant shore, and Arthur congratulated himself on choosing such an unseasonably beautiful day to take the Queen out. One could hardly even taste the coming winter in the air.

Guinevere, dismounting from Kit (who Morgana had saddled earlier that morning), had stopped thinking about her next rendezvous with Lancelot for the first time that day. The natural world was almost impossibly enchanting that afternoon, and the sky had adopted a shade of blue so bright that it nearly outshone the sun. She breathed in the sweet air floating across the lake, her eyes glowing happily. "It is perfect," she whispered, just loudly enough for Arthur to hear.

"I would never suspect it of being winter in this area," he replied, an unusual tranquility settling over his heart. "Indeed, sometimes I wonder if the season ever changes up here." Arthur offered his arm to Guinevere, who took it with a smile.

"I should hope not," Guinevere replied, gazing around in wonderment; the two royals began to stroll the perimeter of the lake. "Though I will say, it does seem much the same to me."

"The same?" Arthur shook his hair out of his eyes and looked quizzically at his wife. "You have been to the lake before?"

Guinevere nodded languorously. "Of course. Have you forgotten my father's visit? I was young at the time, only seven years of age, but I believe Milord would have been old enough to recall."

"Ah yes." Arthur flicked his eyes downwards, the memories returning at his wife's prompt. "I must have been… what?... eleven years or so at the time?" He nodded to himself. "Yes, this was just after I received my first full-sized crossbow."

"Yes, I remember that," Guinevere remarked with a laugh. "You brandished it for the better part of the week, and mostly at me."

"Perhaps not my brightest age." Arthur smiled at his past misconduct, shaking his head. "But I would not truly have shot at you. Father would have had my head in the time it took me to aim and fire."

Guinevere giggled, a surprisingly sweet sound. "That is absolute falsehood, I remember what happened to that manservant of your father's."

Arthur's eyes opened in recollection and he cringed. "You mean Meonthes?" He sighed guiltily. "Poor man."

"Poor man?" Guinevere goaded him. "You shot him point blank with a crossbow!"

"By accident!" Arthur protested. "I was sure the trigger was stabilized…"

Guinevere raised her eyebrows in amusement. "And the best way to test that theory was to shoot the King's manservant?"

"He flipped the platter up in time," Arthur griped defensively, "and what good was my arrow against solid metal? It bounced harmlessly off, and Meonthes was none the worse for the experience."

"You forget, and rather willingly, I suspect, that there was food on that platter," Guinevere retorted, stepping around a ditch. "And when Meonthes moved it up to save his eye from an unpleasant meeting with your arrow, some of that food went spilling over your father's head!"

Arthur opened his mouth, without a response in mind, and closed it again when no words came out.

"Does this sound more familiar now, Milord?" Guinevere laughed triumphantly at her husband, who sighed.

"There are certain punishments one never forgets," he admitted grudgingly, "though we may try very, very hard to do so."

Guinevere bit her bottom lip, suddenly looking at Arthur with something akin to sympathy. "I can imagine. I shall never lose His Majesty's face from my mind, he was… scarlet with rage… spitting mad…" she shuddered reflexively. "I remember staring down at my plate, waiting for his wrath to crash down."

Arthur shook his head ruefully. "Father knew better than to explode in front of a visiting delegation, but that was hardly the end of it." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I believe I still have scars from that beating."

Guinevere looked away from him. "I am sorry for that," she said gently. "It really was the only dark spot of our visit."

Arthur smiled faintly, a bit of his good humor returning. "If I may be honest, you were an awful annoyance back then."

Guinevere's eyes twinkled as she responded, "I would hazard to say precisely the same to you, Milord."

He laughed at her audacity. "Please," he reminded her, "just Arthur."

The richness of his voice warmed Guinevere and she reached up her free hand to pat Arthur's cheek affectionately.

The touch was somehow sobering to the King. "I fear I owe you an apology, Guinevere," he said abruptly, cahgning the subject as he helped her over a fallen tree branch.

"Apology?" The Queen lifted her skirts delicately to the ankle. "What for?"

Until then the conversation had been going so smoothly, and Arthur now found himself completely tongue-tied, unsure of how to express the guilt in his heart without admitting to his affair with Lady Juliana. Talking about their shared memories had been so simple; Arthur found that speaking with Guinevere much easier when he didn't have to be original. His guilty conscience feared her jeering, and made it difficult to choose his words fluidly.

"I feel… as if…" Arthur stumbled over his thoughts, "I have been less than adequate in my behavior towards you."

Guinevere looked oddly at her husband, and the familiar awkward sensation crept back over her. "I do not understand," she replied blatantly. "I can think of nothing you have done to offend me."

The two of them rounded an edge of the lake and entered a patch of tall grass. "It is not a specific instance," Arthur insisted, trying to recover from his fumbling, "but a general feeling. I know my mind has been far away since the struggle at Morswood. I should have come to see you after your illness, called on you sooner –"

"Please," Guinevere stopped him, "there is no reason for your contrition, I know the responsibilities of a king to be time-consuming."

Arthur tried again. "Are you certain?"

"Of course, of course," she replied, shrugging off the notion irritably. "Is this why you brought me out here today? To apologize?"

It sounded awfully calculating coming from her mouth, and Arthur hated that. "Well, no," he lied. "I thought you might like to see the lake again –"

Guinevere snapped towards him at that, and said flippantly, "Again? Milord did not remember I had ever seen it before."

The mistrust in her eyes stung Arthur, and he shook his head, trying to talk himself around her assumptions. "No, I only –"

She narrowed her eyes. "You must have felt there was much to apologize for in bringing me all the way out here." Guinevere had dropped Arthur's hand, and was getting rather far ahead of him. "What is it you are truly asking my forgiveness for?" she tossed over her shoulder.

Arthur hurried to catch his wife; things were taking a ruinous turn. "Listen to me, Guinevere, I only wanted to –"

"What?" The Queen's eyes flashed brightly as she scrutinized her husband's face. "What is it you wish to tell me?" Impatient, her mood having taken a horrible downturn, Guinevere stamped her dainty foot onto the ground.

"_Ahh!_" she cried out, and her face instantly contorting in pain, she collapsed.

"Guinevere!" Arthur shouted in surprise, and he dashed to her side, closing the distance between them.

"Oooh," she groaned, curling up in anguish. "Ooh, ahhahah," she chanted desperately.

"What happened?" Arthur knelt in the long grass, cradling Guinevere to his chest. "What happened?"

"My foot," she bit out from between her teeth, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Oh Gods, my foot!"

Arthur's eyes jumped downwards, and he shifted through the Queen's many skirts. A splash of blood streaked the bottom of the delicate fabric, and a sizable hole was visible in Guinevere's slipper.

"Come," Arthur grunted, settling his arms around Guinevere, one behind her back and one beneath her knees. "We must return to Camelot immediately." Lifting the Queen into his strong arms, Arthur stood up and started back towards the horses.


	38. Chapter 38

WiltingDaisies94: Sorry for the long time no update... life's been a bit crazy, but oh well.

Last time we were with Arthur and Guinevere, and something had just gone very wrong... and so, onwards. Enjoy!

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><p><span>Chapter 38<span>

"Poison," Gaius pronounced flatly, looking with dissatisfaction at the sleeping Queen.

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn it."

"There is no need to be hard on yourself, Sire." Gaius put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "You brought the Queen back just in time for the antidote to be administered." He stole another glance at his patient. "She will be feverish for a few days… but she owes you her life."

Arthur snorted. "You can imagine how much better that makes me feel," he answered dryly, running a hand down his face. "Why did this happen, Gaius?"

"Based on the depth and length of the wound, I would assume a snake bite." Gaius narrowed his eyes critically. "Her Majesty must have stepped on a nest and disturbed the mother –"

"Not that, Gaius," Arthur bit out in exasperation. "I meant, why did this have to happen to _her_? And on today of all days!"

Gaius, surprised at the outburst, but serene as ever, turned his intuitive gaze on Arthur. "Does something disturb you, Sire?"

Arthur crossed his arms and took a deep breath, deflating. "No," he eventually muttered in response to the rhetorical question. "I will be fine. Just…" he shook his head, "see that Her Majesty is looked after, would you?"

"Of course, Sire." Gaius folded his hands in front of him and bowed his head to the King. "Her Majesty's maid will be in shortly, and I shall personally look in on the Queen later tonight."

"Thank you," Arthur muttered, too frustrated to sound grateful. He bobbed his head shortly in the healer's direction and turned to leave Guinevere's bedroom. The exhaustion of the day was beginning to catch up with him; the adrenaline invading his bloodstream had calmed considerably, and only now was Arthur starting to feel the weight of having carried Guinevere at a running pace halfway around a lake.

Arthur pulled the door open and nearly crashed headlong into Morgana, who was trying to enter, carrying a load of fresh washcloths.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, stepping back in surprise.

Arthur almost apologized, but stopped. That little sound reminded him very strongly of something, though he couldn't for the life of him remember what. And attempting to figure it out, Arthur stood in the doorway, staring blankly at the maid.

Morgana had no way around Arthur – he really did fill the entranceway, and so she remained frozen under his gaze. Her eyes were riveted on Arthur's face, the intensity of his expression dragging her under his power. It was not unlike the look he wore in her nightmares, but his anger had been replaced by confusion.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but his words were trapped. Maybe it was his exhaustion doing the thinking for him, but there was something awfully familiar in the maid's face. She was the one… the one who… who had… had what?

"Sire?" Gaius's voice interrupted the pair's silent standoff, and he peered over Arthur's shoulder. "This is Queen Guinevere's maid. Would Your Majesty please allow her entrance?"

Arthur jerked back into reality and stepped aside. "Of course," he replied, moving out of Morgana's way, the feeling of forgetfulness still with him. "I… I will be back later this evening, Gaius, er, after supper."

"Very good, Sire." Gaius nodded to him, and turned back to Guinevere. "Come along, my dear," he said to Morgana, who spared Arthur one more look over her shoulder before disappearing behind the hangings of the Queen's bed.

Arthur walked out of the room slowly, closing the door behind him. The quiet sound of a bolt sliding into place echoed in his ears, and as he stood in the Queen's receiving chamber, Arthur was hit with a sudden wave of conviction.

Leaving Guinevere's apartments entirely, Arthur descended to the lower levels of the palace. Servants passing in the halls gave the proper obeisance, but with his sudden preoccupation, Arthur hardly noticed.

At least, until Merlin popped up beside him. "Is it true what the maids are saying?" he asked, hurrying alongside his master. "The Queen has been poisoned?"

Arthur's eyes flicked sideways dismissively. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose."

"In a manner of speaking?" Merlin's voice rose in disbelief. "Would you care to explain that? Is Her Majesty ill?"

"It was a snake bite, Merlin," Arthur insisted, his attention utterly elsewhere. "Gaius has her in good hands, and he believes her fever will recede shortly –"

"Fever?!" Merlin grabbed Arthur's forearm and forced him to stop. "Are you even hearing yourself? How can you be so nonchalant? Your wife has _poison_ in her blood and here you are, running about after heaven only knows what!"

"Merlin, please," Arthur said, brushing off his manservant distractedly, resuming his brisk pace. "I do not have time for this; I must reach the record archives!"

"What for?" Merlin called after him, standing, arms akimbo, in the middle of the hallway as Arthur hurried away. "Sire, what for?!"

But Arthur was gone, having rounded a bend that led to the lower staircase. Merlin's voice vanished behind him; preoccupation made Arthur extraordinarily single-minded, and he plunged onwards down the stairs.

The dank smell of the scroll rooms reached Arthur's nose, and the King sneezed sharply. "God," he muttered with a sniffle. Pushing open the double doors, Arthur entered the dim records chamber.

"Good evening, Majesty." Geoffrey, the official record-keeper, and likely the oldest man Arthur had ever met, greeted him. "How might I be of service to you?"

Arthur cleared his throat, having more or less forgotten about the record-keeper's existence. "Master Geoffrey," he said, trying to pull some authority into his voice, "I need to have a look at some genealogies. Might you point me to them?"

"No. But I will bring the scrolls to you," the old man answered in his gruff tone. "Whose family line does His Majesty wish to view?"

Arthur coughed, embarrassed despite his royalty; he felt half his actual size under the critical man's gaze. "The Queen's, if you please. Her direct line… and, er, any relations you can discover."

Geoffrey might have disapproved, but it was difficult to tell with his constantly severe expression. "Give me a moment, Majesty." With that, he shuffled out from behind his desk and moved off behind a set of dusty, oaken shelves.

Arthur crossed his arms and waited, trying to find something to pretend to stare at with interest. As much as he wanted the records, being down in the scroll rooms reminded him why he always sent Merlin to fetch things for him. The atmosphere was utterly discomfiting, and the very walls seemed to eye Arthur in gloomy condemnation.

"Here you are, Majesty." The old man had returned, four separate scrolls in his arms. "I believe this is what you seek."

Arthur reached for the scrolls, holding steady as he touched the record-keeper's cold hands. "Yes," he replied, already shuffling backwards. "Thank you. I will send Merlin down to return these once I have finished."

"Of course, Majesty."

"Oh," Arthur added as an afterthought, "and Master Geoffrey? I would rather this visit remain… discreet… if possible. Do you understand?"

The old man nodded slowly, as though the movement would break his stiff neck. "Yes, Majesty," he replied dustily. "I understand completely."


	39. Chapter 39

WiltingDaisies94: Ugh... so the problem with Merlin being over is that now I have so few reminders to get me to update this story... except you guys! Thank you, Guest, whoever you are, for constantly pestering me! I don't know what I'd do without your reviews :)

This chapter is more subplot... but next chapter I have a surprise for you that you won't want to miss... it's something you've all been waiting for...

Enjoy!

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><p><span>Chapter 39<span>

"Why Merlin, what a terribly solemn expression. What seems to be troubling you?"

The manservant looked up over his shoulder. Lily was leaning over the banister of the staircase, grinning brightly.

Merlin smiled exhaustedly back at her. "Morning," he croaked, vaguely attempting to stifle a yawn. "Where have you been all week?"

"Oh, nowhere in particular. Here and there," Lily replied cheekily. "About."

Merlin grunted and shook his head sleepily. "Very well, then. Be mysterious if you like. I doubt I would register a word of it anyway."

Lily frowned and swung herself under the banister, perching on the stair next to Merlin's head. "Are you ill?" she asked concernedly, leaning down to place a gentle hand on Merlin's cheek. "Or has His Majesty just been working you like a madman again?"

Merlin nudged her palm playfully with his nose. "No, it is not my work. For once my chores have been consistent... at least in quantity." He shrugged. "But at the same time, yes. Of course it has to do with that royal numbskull."

Lily chuckled. "What mess has the King made for you now?"

Merlin was very quiet. He'd become increasingly worried about Arthur; marriage, he had decided, did not suit his master at all. Not that the King had ever been the most logical person, but since his wedding, Merlin hardly recognized the chaos in Arthur's head. He seemed constantly distracted, and the last time he had really acted like himself was during the battle at Morswood.

It was not typical behavior, and worse than that, Arthur had stopped unburdening himself to Merlin. The manservant had noticed the King's newfound tendency to clam up, and it frustrated him. He was used to his position as Arthur's confidant, and somehow not working to stabilize Arthur's mental health was disturbing Merlin significantly.

"I think," Merlin answered slowly, "Their Majesties are in trouble."

Lily nodded. "Yes, something about poison was mentioned…" She shrugged guiltily. "I might have heard the whole story from Meryl, who had it from Rosalind, who heard directly from Mor –"

"Yes, I understand," Merlin shushed her, waving a dismissive hand. "Word travels quickly in this godforsaken palace." He shook his head. "Would it really be so much to ask for everyone to mind their own business?"

Lily gave a laugh and put her feet on the bench Merlin was occupying, climbing down from the staircase. When she had settled herself comfortably next to the manservant, Lily tilted her head. "Talk to me, Merlin. You look miserable, darling."

Even in his exhausted state, Merlin felt a small flutter flick through his stomach at the endearment. Directly reminding himself that Lily and Gwaine had… something… between them, Merlin shook his head absent-mindedly.

"Oh no." Lily had seen the motion and misinterpreted it completely. "Do not you dare try and avoid it. Tell me what has you bothered, or so help me," she threatened, knocking Merlin in the shoulder, "I will beat you over the head with a baking pan."

Merlin leaned away from her touch and looked down embarrassedly. "I just…" he searched for an excuse, "I worry about Arthur."

"You worry about everyone." Lily leaned her back against the wall and looked at him fondly.

He did. Arthur, Lancelot, Gwaine – all of a sudden Merlin had to know. He glanced up at the maid intently. "May I ask you something?"

Lily raised an eyebrow at him. The maid did not like the way Merlin had flinched away from her, and his unexpected change of attitude set off a sudden warning in her head. "You may," she replied, outwardly calm.

And of course, the moment Merlin had found the courage to ask, he lost all ability to formulate a question. "What… I mean, how… er, no…" he growled in annoyance. "Why – why are you so spiteful towards Sir Gwaine?"

Lily had _not_ been expecting that. "I beg your pardon? Who told you that?"

The accusatory tone threw Merlin off-balance. When had talking to Lily become so difficult? He felt all the wrong words clambering up his throat, rushing to burst the dam of his lips and spill out. "I, er, I, that is, I spoke to Gwaine and he said –"

"Said what?" Lily's eyes flashed a mixture of danger and wariness.

"Oh please, Lily, do not snap at me!" Merlin shot her a look of tired pleading. "If you would only understand –"

"I have done nothing to Sir Gwaine." Lily crossed her arms. "Listen, Merlin, I appreciate your concern, but this has nothing to do with you. I know he is your friend, but let it rest, or I swear to the Gods –"

"Oh swear what?" Merlin bit out, crankiness finally getting the better of him. "Based on how irritable the subject makes you, I can tell your response." The bitterness shone through his voice, and he found he had no control over it. "Obviously you like him."

Lily narrowed her eyes meanly and stood up. "You know something, Merlin?" she said in a cold, low voice. "I think you had best get some sleep."

"No, really?" he spat scornfully. It was an entirely out-of-body experience; the manservant could practically see it from above, and was screaming at himself to stop badgering her.

The maid shot him a glare. "Good day, Merlin," she hissed, and turning on her heel, Lily hurried away from him.

Shit.

Merlin let out a breath and tipped his head against the wall, closing his eyes. That had been a disaster. He had no idea where his sudden mistrust of Lily had come from, or why his temper was so short. Perhaps he'd picked up Arthur's crazy mood, or the lack of sleep had finally gone to his head.

Merlin covered his face with his hands and rubbed his exhausted eyes. It was never so much trouble to have a conversation with Lily, and he hated the angry look on her face as she'd walked away. And where had all those snappish comments come from?

Usually they conversed easily, like the good friends they were, but bringing Gwaine into the discussion had turned everything upside down. Merlin couldn't figure out why it made him so upset; Gwaine was his friend, and so was Lily.

"Oi!"

Merlin's eyes opened. The head cook was glaring down at him; Merlin was getting awfully sick of people glowering. "Yes?" he asked resignedly.

"I need you out of here, lad," she said, cocking her head sharply. "We have a hunting party coming in, and they are bound to have a load of carcasses when they get back. I need all the space I can find."

Merlin placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself into a standing position. "Sorry," he mumbled, shaking his head. "Sorry to be in your way too."


	40. Chapter 40

WiltingDaisies94: Missing Merlin, missing writing fic, and so I offer this to anyone who has made it all the way to Chapter 40. Thank you, Guest, for your lovely review this Saturday. My story thanks you wholeheartedly for the encouragement.

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><p><span>Chapter 40<span>

"You wish to go where, Milady?" Lancelot asked dubiously as Guinevere took his hand.

"Your chambers," she replied smoothly, sweetly. "Winter is nearly here, and I can taste the coming snow on the northern winds. It is far too cold to walk outside, and I fear catching cold." Guinevere smiled entreatingly, then bubbled warmly over with her intentions: "I believe a merry fire in the hearth, some spiced wine, and a comfortable space to settle down are precisely what this evening requires."

"Well," Lancelot conceded, not particularly averse to the corresponding image his mind had conjured, "I suppose it is rather frigid, and I should not like to subject you to the cold. But I must warn you, my apartments are rather a trek from the main chambers of the castle."

Guinevere smiled. "Perfect." She could not have asked for anything better; the farther away from the King's rooms they were, the happier she would be. "I think the quiet shall be most charming." Indeed, Guinevere was counting on it; she had finally made up her mind – she was going to reveal herself to Lancelot.

After her near death experience, the Queen had spent a great sea lot time considering her situation. As she'd lain in bed, sweating and chilled for days on end, her wildest imaginings had played out in her sleep. Her mind had spun series of bizarre fantasies and stories for her consideration, where Lancelot and Arthur had danced across her thoughts in a vicious swirl of jousting and dancing. And once Guinevere had regained her senses, her fever driven away under Gaius' careful watch, everything had somehow become much clearer.

Firstly, she would never love Arthur; try as they might to spend time together, they had such strained compatibility. It was pathetic how poorly their communication worked out, and if only he hadn't made her so angry, perhaps she would have avoided her poisoning.

Secondly, Guinevere had discovered how frightfully mortal she truly was, a feeling previously foreign. Knowing how close she had come to death still terrified Guinevere when she thought about it. She was a mere twenty years into her life, and the idea that it might be cut off at any moment, without her having known love as it was meant to be… no. Queen or otherwise, married or not, she could not abide by that. If she died tomorrow it would be with Lancelot's promise of love in her ears.

So she would tell him. And Lancelot would react…

...well, that was the part Guinevere had not entirely parsed out. There were two primary conflicting factors that Guinevere saw: Lancelot's love for her and his loyalty to Arthur.

Guinevere was praying the former would win out; she hoped she might have a slight advantage. After all, she had reasoned with herself, she represented two people the knight loved – herself and (she snorted a bit) "Lady Morgana".

Love and loyalty, she mused, were different things. Lancelot owed his allegiance to Arthur, but not with the absolutely slavish fidelity of… what was his name… that manservant… Merlin, that was it. Lancelot did not hesitate in having his own opinion of the King or sharing it with her. It was clear that he and Arthur had their points of disagreement, a fact which Guinevere wasn't entirely above exploiting.

And in any case, love was Guinevere's domain. She had Lancelot's heart in her hand and was waiting to give hers in return. Her soul called for him, and during the most lucid periods of her illness, she had fervently wished to have him beside her. Only the consolation of seeing him in her dreams had kept her sane throughout the week of constant babying and fretting of Gaius and Morgana.

"Here we are." Lancelot held open the door for Guinevere, who smiled graciously up at him.

She stepped into the warm apartment, her eyes sweeping across the chamber. It was a sparsely decorated area, with a few practical pieces of furniture and a large rug. A coat of arms hung on the far wall, practically the only decoration in the main room. Unlike Guinevere's chambers there were no flowers or tapestries, and the main chamber branched off into the just one other room.

"Please sit, Milady. Give me a moment and I will fetch us some wine. " Lancelot deposited Guinevere on a practical chaise longue. Her periwinkle gown was a stunning accent to the pale blue of the cloth, and unable to resist, Lancelot leaned in to catch her lips.

Guinevere smiled against his mouth, his touch making her feel light as a feather, ready to float away at any moment. How could she not love this man? It kept her sane through the days when she couldn't see him, when her life was crowded with the little inanities of queenly living.

It was rather amazing to Guinevere that she had managed to keep Lancelot from guessing who she was all this time. But he was so kind and respectful... he had never gone prying into her identity, not seriously. He was perfectly content to love her as Lady Morgana. The name did not concern him nearly so much as the person who owned it.

And praying that attitude would remain in place, she pushed Lancelot, who she had dragged down onto the chair, off her.

"What is it?" Lancelot asked, distressed at her abrupt end to their intimacy. "Have I done something wrong, my lady?

"No, no," Guinevere assured him, moving her body to face his. "But before this goes any further, I must tell you the truth."

"Truth?" Lancelot drew back a little himself. "Are you ill?"

Only in my heart, Guinevere thought. "No," she replied, reaching for the knight's hands. "Not ill."

"Then what ails you?" Lancelot's brow had knotted in concern. "Can I be of service?"

"Just listen, please," Guinevere said, watching him with earnest eyes. "Hear me through before you speak." She smiled dolefully. "That is all I ask."

Unsure, Lancelot frowned. Lady Morgana was in an unusual mood this evening, and some small amount of intuition warned him that whatever she had to say in that serious tone could not bode well. "Very well," he agreed courteously. "As my lady would like."

And then it was silent, with only the wind howling in warning against the windowpane. Guinevere looked at Lancelot, who returned her stare, and tried to pull together a train of thought. Now that she'd reached this moment, Guinevere was petrified of making a mistake. How could she approach the truth she'd kept hidden so faithfully?

"I…"

Her mouth opened and closed, but the words refused to budge.

"I… I must… t-tell you…"

He was so close, she could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the touch of his hands against her own. The worry, the trust in his face was dark with hesitation; Guinevere's mind was frozen.

"My… the truth…"

But Guinevere's mental functions had shut down, and her senses had taken over. Releasing Lancelot's hands, she closed her eyes. Reaching around the back of her head, Guinevere untied the strings that held her mask fast to her face, and let her façade fall away. Breathing scantily, she moved her head up, and looked directly at Lancelot.


End file.
